


Ghosts

by Linger1536



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Inner Demons, Jon Sansa cousins, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, R plus L equals J, different take on Jon and Sansa's relationship in season 6 and 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:23:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 69,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7603243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linger1536/pseuds/Linger1536
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She ghosts her fingertips over the wound and shivers as her fingers dip into it. When she draws her hand back her fingers come away bloodied and she cannot help but marvel at the coldness of the blood that ought to be warm and thick, not cold and thin.</p><p>At the loss of contact Jon falls forward, bracing his arms against his knees as he hangs his head in defeat. Sansa's eyes harden with determination as she watches the muscles in his back and arms ripple as he fists his hands.</p><p>Jon does not look up at the sound of her skirts rustling against the floor, if possible his head lowers until the tip of his nose brushes against his knees, but when he hears the distinct sound of fabric dropping onto the floor his head snaps up and all thoughts about him and his scars leaves his mind.</p><p>"Sansa..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones!
> 
> Jon's appearance is based more on the books than the show. Since I began writing this before the last two episodes aired the events will differ slightly from each other.
> 
> So I finally joined this site after lurking for years, and I'm so excited!  
> I'm also on ff net (this story is posted there as well) and you can find my under the same name on there, but I prefer this site since I think there are more wellwritten stories on here which is why I decided to join.
> 
> Quick note; English is not my first language so there will probably be spelling mistakes, and since I normally write really late I probably missed fixing some things but I hope you won't mind too much.
> 
> Reviews are what motivates me so please don't hesitate to leave one! :)
> 
> Edit 31/3-2017 I'm currently rewriting the chapters, mostly just tweaking some bits and the main reason for that is so that I can get back into the story.

Sansa does not shy away from anyone's touch.. or rather she tries not to. Most men do not notice, most of them have enough of respect to not touch her.

It had only happened once in front of others, she had accidentally cut her hand on a sharp knife when not paying enough attention.

Podrick — being the kind soul that he is — had reached for her hand to stop the bleeding with an exclaimed, “Milady!” but when his hand had closed around hers she had stiffened.

Her breath had hitched before quickening and she had felt needles begin to prickle at the skin at the back of her neck and her chilled hands had grown clammy.

Podrick had pressed a cloth to the cut before hastily letting go, mumbling an apology.

Sansa had adverted her gaze and her chest had heaved as she drew in a shuddering breath, her eyes had flickered to her left where they had locked with Jon's attentive grey ones.

* * *

Jon isn't quite like any man she has met before. Sansa comes to that conclusion during her third night at Castle Black. He is kind and good... too good perhaps. She often finds herself amazed by it, it is such a stark contrast to the other men she has encountered, all of whom had wanted something from her, be it her title, land or body but Jon does not. Jon is not meant for this world of betrayal, she muses, he is too good for it and she fears it will be his downfall.

She wakes one night with her skin slick and moist and eyes wide with terror as she stares into the darkness of her small room. The scream is lodged in her throat and she winces when she swallows causing it to push painfully against the lump that has been forming there.

She reaches for her cloak with trembling hands, wrapping herself up in it before she makes her way across the room towards the door on unsteady legs.

Brienne is standing outside in the torch lit corridor, her back is rigid as she turns towards the door, wearing a look of concern on her tired face, while resting her hand on the hilt of the beautiful sword that is strapped to her side. “My Lady?”

Sansa shakes her head, a few red strands of hair cling stubbornly to her damp forehead. “I wish to speak with my brother,” she looks down the corridor towards Jon's room, “alone.” A frown puckers the tall woman's lips but Sansa does not give her the opportunity to object. “Get some rest, Brienne.”

Sansa creaks the door open slowly before slipping inside quietly. Her eyes lock with a pair of red ones in the dying light of the fire and she freezes for a moment before pushing the door closed. “Ghost.”

The wolf lowers its head back onto its giant paws, its eyes drop closed as sleep reclaims it. Sansa toes around him, brushing her leg against his warm fur as she approaches the bed where she can see the silhouette of her sleeping brother.

She remains motionless, staring down at him in amazement as he rolls onto his side, facing her. She cannot help but to marvel at long face and the dark hair that frames it —so much like her father's. Yet there is something about him, something that she can't quite put her finger on but that makes him distinctly different from Lord Eddard Stark.

There is a low groan and suddenly Jon's peaceful exterior changes. His lips twitch and a crease forms between his eyebrows while sweat begins to dampen his forehead. Sansa watches, unsure of what to do as he draws up both his burned and uninjured hand to his chest where he closes them into tight fists, he turns his face into his pillow and lets out a muffled groan.

Ghost lifts his head from his paws. His ears are erect and a low whine escapes him as he watches Jon toss and turn on the bed.

Sansa lifts one hand, reaching out for Jon's trembling frame but then she hesitates with her hand hovering in the air above his shoulder. She clenches it, biting down on her lower lip until she draws blood. It is Jon's muffled cry that spurs her into action and without thinking about it her fingers close around his taut shoulder.

“Jon.”

His grey eyes snap open, wide and vulnerable. Sansa recognizes the fear in them, it is the same fear she wakes to every night. He cowers away from her, drawing up his legs into a defensive position until the confusion clears from his eyes and he comes back to himself. “Sansa?” he croaks.

“Yes,” she whispers, gently squeezing his shoulder.

Jon's dazed eyes leave her face, travelling down the length of her arm until they settle on her hand, which is when Sansa realises what she is doing and quickly tries to withdraw it but his warm calloused hand closes around hers. “No,” he whispers hoarsely.

Sansa's heart drums furiously against her chest and she sinks to her knees once she realises what he is doing. Jon is too good, _too kind_ for this world, he is in pain and yet he is attempting to heal her wounds.

He does not say anything instead he just watches her with those intense eyes of his, allowing her to take control. Finally after minutes of the fire crackling and the soft breathing coming from the now sleeping wolf, she closes her own hand around his.

“I dream about _him,_ ” she confesses in a whisper into the silence of the room. Her hand trembles in his hold and he loosens it slightly as if he is afraid that she will recoil if he is to tighten it. “Sometimes when I wake he is still there... torturing me.”

Her grip tightens around his and then she waits. Waits for him to unburden himself but when he doesn't, she licks her lips before parting them, asking softly, “What do you dream of?”

Jon's eyes flicker to Ghost. “Death.”

Sansa nods. They are both trapped in their own hells, although there might be more to his, she muses.

“But it is not real,” she says more so to herself than to him. “Not anymore.”

Grey locks onto blue. “No, not anymore.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think?
> 
> Did you like it? Hate it?
> 
> How do you feel about my portrayal of Sansa and Jon?
> 
> I just want to clarify that the characters wearing furs, leather and eating meat has nothing to do with my personal beliefs, I'm against that and I do encourage everyone to educate yourself on the subject of going vegetarian or vegan for the planet, animals and our own health before you sneer at the subject.  
> The reason I have these characters eating meat and wearing furs is because GoT is set in a medieval universe, and I wanted to stay true to what life was back then, it has nothing to do with my own personal beliefs.


	2. Chapter 2

It is strange their relationship. They are supposed to be close, everyone believes it to be so and they so desperately want it to be true but the cruel truth is that they do not know each other. They never really had to begin with.

They both want to get to know the other, but how do you go about it when all you have endured for years is torture and heartbreak? And so they skirt around the issue, never really asking what the other has been through these last couple of years, because they have both heard the rumours and it is nothing either of them wish to speak of.

And so Jon asks her about lemon cakes, smiling fondly as he remembers the extent their father had gone to to assure that there would always be lemon cakes available. Sansa laughs along with him but her eyes are sad, lemon cakes and their sweetness have no place in her life any more.

She in return asks about his training at Castle Black and about Sam. Sam is a safe subject, he is still alive and so asking about him won't stir up any painful memories. She enjoys hearing about Sam, the way Jon's voice lightens and his eyes shine as he speaks of his friend makes her feel good, and she hopes that she will have the pleasure of meeting this remarkable person one day.

They spend their days holed up in the Lord Commander's quarters with Jon's advisers, creating war strategies, although Sansa feels more left out of the group than a part of it. She does not have any experience of war, but she does want to help which is why she tries her hardest to understand everything that is being said and to give advise even though it is not always well received.

When they are not preparing for the war looming ahead of them they go on walks. Jon takes her up on the Wall, and as she stares down at the vast white landscape below she feels incredibly insignificant.

The nights however are different. It is as if the darkness gives them courage to broach the subjects they would not dare to touch when sky is bright.

Sansa is seated on a plaid that has been laid out on the floor next to Jon's bed, with her back resting against Ghost's warm body. She keeps running her fingers absent-mindedly through the soft fur, watching as it slips between them.

"Sansa?"

"Yes?"

She looks up at him when he hesitates to answer. She can see him lying on his back, through the dim light the flames casts, with his arms folded over his chest as he stares up at the wooden ceiling with a thoughtful expression.

"What is it Jon?" her voice is gentle, encouraging him to ask her whatever he wants to.

He rolls onto his side and his scarred hand comes to rest underneath his cheek as he stares down at her. "What happened to Lady?"

She blinks up at him, not having expected him to ask her about it. She glances down at Ghost, whose breath puffs against her arm as he sleeps soundly. She twines her fingers in his fur. "Cersei."

It is too dark for Sansa to see the way his eyes harden but she can hear the underlying anger in his voice. "When?"

"It was on the Kingsroad," she begins in a steady voice. "Arya was playing with the butcher's boy, they were sparring with sticks and... and Joffrey and I happened upon them." She stares at a shadow that flickers on the wall next to Jon, lost in memory. "Joffery challenged the boy but he refused to fight back, he only had a stick while Joffery had his  _fancy_ sword."

Jon sucks in an angry breath and she pauses for a second with a small smile playing on her lips. "Arya wouldn't stand for that." The pride in her eyes is mirrored in his. "She hit him from behind... he was quick, swinging his sword about, but you should have seen the way she moved," she pauses, gazing thoughtfully into the darkness. "It was if she was dancing... a very poor dance but one nonetheless."

Jon chuckles. "I'm not sure she would appreciate that."

Sansa laughs as well but her smile fades quickly. "She fell, and he was screaming about how he would cut her open... and I...  _I_ did nothing, I just stood there like the stupid little girl I was."

The resent in her voice cuts through the room and Jon parts his lips, about to console her, assure her that it had not been her fault, she had been young, but he does not get the chance as she continues on.

"Nymeria came out of nowhere. She ripped into Joffery's arm and he fell, screaming like a small child. Arya was the one to get back up, taking his sword." Sansa locks her eyes with his. "You should have seen the look on his face, Jon. The way he cowered and whimpered. I wish Arya would have ended him then and there... I believe she does as well, but in the end she threw the sword into the river and ran off with Nymeria."

A few dark strands of hair fall into Jon's eyes as he shifts closer to the edge of the bed. "They wanted Nymeria?"

She nods. "Yes, but Arya already knew this. I don't know how but somehow she managed to drive Nymeria off. I now wish I would have done the same with Lady but I was too naïve to think of it."

Her hands begin to tremble and Ghost opens his eyes, pushing his snout against one of them, licking at it with his warm tongue which a draws a smile from Sansa.

"Robert wouldn't even have given the wolves a second thought if it weren't for Cersei. It was she who made them slaughter Lady in Nymeria's place."

Jon can barely restrain an angry hiss but Sansa does not seem to notice, too lost in her own thoughts.

"Father refused to have some butcher do it, he did it himself. He said, 'The wolf is of the North, she deserves better than a butcher.'"

Jon sits up which causes the furs to fall down around him to reveal the wool undershirt they all have to sleep in to keep warm in the frigid cold. "I am so sorry, Sansa."

She shrugs and shakes her head sadly. "I'm grateful for it now," she whispers. "She didn't have to suffer a worse fate."

The silence that follows is a long one and Sansa's eyes begin to drop closed, somewhere far away she knows that she ought to get up and return to her own room but the gentle crackling of the fire and the softness of Ghost's fur, accompanied by Jon's breathing begins to lull her into a deep sleep.

Jon on the other hand remains wide awake, staring down at the sleeping redhead and the direwolf. His mind is swirling with the information he has just learned, but two distinctive faces stand out amongst everything else. One is of a horse faced girl with the same dark hair as him, and a pair of mischievous grey eyes. The other one is that of the girl asleep on the floor below him, her beautiful eyes are sad, devoid of any happiness and her delicate features are twisted in agony. He shudders, knowing that no matter how often he plays out the different scenarios of how she had been tortured he will never do the cruelty of it justice.

He slips out of the bed as silently as possible before bending down next to her, ignoring the way Ghost cocks his head at him as he takes the sleeping girl into his arms and lifts her onto the bed, wrapping her up in the furs.

Ghost gets up as well, moving so close to the bed that his body is pushed up against it while his head which is resting on his paws reaches up past the frame of the bed. Sansa turns onto her side and her hand falls onto Ghost's head drawing a smile from Jon. He grabs the remaining furs off of the floor and wraps himself up in them before curling into Ghost's side, where he falls asleep quickly.

* * *

They depart from Castle Black the following day. It is a cold day, much colder than the previous one and they all shiver furiously, despite being wrapped up in layers of wool and fur. Sansa pulls her woolen hat down as far as it will go before drawing her hood up in an attempt to keep the chilling wind at bay.

She catches Jon throwing a concerned look over his shoulder at the Wall, but his eyes are far away focused on something beyond the mass of ice.

She does not seek him out until late that night after they have set up camp deep inside the woods. The wind howls loudly, and the trees groan in protest at being bent as she sits down on the log next to him.

He turns to her with dark troubled eyes. "You should get some rest."

"So should you."

He tips his head back, watching the constellations glimmer brightly above the treetops. His breath leaves him in a cloud of smoke and he draws in another one, about to say something but the words escapes him in another cloud of smoke as he stops himself.

Sansa removes her gaze from his and tilts her head so that she too can watch the stars. "The Ice Dragon was always my favourite," she confesses, slipping off of the log so that she comes to rest her head against it, giving her a better view of the constellation.

Jon mimics the motion but turns his face towards her. "Why?"

"It showed the way south," she says melancholy, pointing her finger down its tail. "I used to look at it every night," she confesses in a whisper, "and then I would fall asleep, dreaming of lush fields that smelled sweetly of all the blossoms that grew there, and of the dashing knights, riding their beautiful stallions across it." Her lower lip curls with disgust. "Once in the south I would do the same, but it was its eyes I would follow."

She looks at him and her blue eyes glimmer brightly, just like the snow below them and the stars above them.

"I would dream of home. I would dream of the cold clinging to my skin, the howls of the direwolves and the clattering of your sword against Robb's. I could hear the pattering of Bran and Rickon's feet as they ran down the corridors with their sweet childlike laughter echoing against the stone walls. I would dream of Mother brushing my hair, and of Arya following you and Robb around with a proud smile. And I would dream about Father."

Jon's adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, looking up at the dragon. "It's my favourite as well."

She turns to him, surprised. "It is?"

His lips curve into a smile. "Aye."

Curious now, she asks, "Why?"

He shrugs. "Old Nan's stories about the dragons were always my favourites." His eyes are earnest as he glances at her. "I wanted to be a knight... until I became old enough to realise knighthood was not meant for bastards, which was when I decided to join the Night Watch. It was the closest thing I would ever have to becoming a knight."

"You are too good to ever be a knight." Sansa's voice is firm and her eyes are hard, leaving no room for objection.

Jon recognises her words for the kindness they are and a warm feeling spreads through his chest. "Thank you."

They both turn their gazes skywards. Minutes pass by and the only sound that can be heard is that of the snow crunching underneath their men's feet as they move around the camp, preparing for the coming day.

"Why is the dragon your favourite though?" Sansa finally asks breaking the silence, her eyes linger on the Ice Dragon's blue ones.

He chuckles. "It seems childish now."

Without giving it any thought she bumps his shoulder with hers. "I'd like to hear it nonetheless."

"Dragons are for the South," he explains, "they don't belong in the North." He watches as his breath leaves him in another cloud of smoke and relishes in the way the cold air fills his lungs with a crisp freshness. " _I_ belong in the North. I knew even then as a child that I would never have a fire breathing dragon such as the one Aegon the Conquer had, but then one night when the wind whistled eerily though Winterfell, and the snow fell heavily onto the ground Old Nan told Robb and I about the ice dragons."

A small smile plays on his lips as he looses himself in the memory. "We were afraid even though we would never admit to it, but Old Nan knew," he tells her, hearing the distant voices of two young children, followed by the rasping voice of an old woman. "She said it was the Ice Dragon who had awoken and that he was bringing winter upon us." Jon shakes his head at himself. "After that I would dream about this large beast made out of ice. I remember that it had majestic wings which seemed so frail, since they were made out of the thinnest layer of ice I have ever laid my eyes upon. They would glimmer with thousands and thousands of ice crystals as it flew through the sky, and its pale crystal blue eyes would roam the landscape before it opened its mouth, breathing ice upon it."

Sansa shivers and wraps her cloak more tightly around herself. "It doesn't sound like a very pleasant dream."

Jon's eyes leave the pale blue ones of the Dragon's to stare into hers. "No, I suppose not," he says, frowning thoughtfully. "But in my dreams I was riding it, and I knew then as I boy that that was the sort of dragon I wanted."

Sansa looks from him up to the dragon and then back at him. "So that is why it's your favourite?"

"Aye, but also because it has helped me find my way more than once."

She smiles at that and he cannot help but to smile as well.

"Bran always loved to hear Old Nan's stories," she says, remembering the rosy cheeked little boy that would come running into her chamber with his words spilling over his tongue in his rush to tell her of what he had learned. "I always thought them silly."

"Most people did," Jon replies gruffly.

She stares at him intensely with a small frown marring her delicate features. "We were foolish not to listen to her warnings... or our own 'Winter is coming', our ancestors knew and that is why they chose those words."

There is a sound of a snapping twig and they both freeze. Their minds reel with images of dead bodies moving silently through the cold night, but Jon lets out a small relieved sigh as his eyes land on a pair of glowing red ones in the distance. "It's only Ghost."

"Jon?"

He keeps his gaze on Ghost while his gloved hands twist around the fabric of his cloak. He knows what she is about to ask and he has no desire to speak about it with her. A part of him, a very large part wants to shield her from all of this. She has endured enough, and she should not have to carry the burden his knowledge will give.

Her gloved hand grasps his and he looks up at her face which is much closer now. "It's true, isn't it?"

"What is?"

Her hand squeezes his hand and her blue eyes harden, daring him to lie. "The White Walkers."

Jon suddenly feels very tired, it is as if all the energy he has been carrying around inside of him since his return has been drained out of him.

He sighs and rubs his palm against his face. "Sansa..."

"Tell me the truth, Jon."

He lets his hand drop to his side and looks down at their entwined hands. Sansa's gaze follows his and she frowns again but she does not remove her hand instead she strokes her thumb along the back of his.

"Aye, it is true."

She does not gasp or grip his hand tightly with fear as most ladies would if they were to be confronted with such a truth, instead she nods and leans back against the log with a thoughtful expression.

"The rumours about Hardhome are true as well then?"

He cocks his head to the side and his surprise is clear in his grey orbs. "Who told you about Hardhome?"

"Tormund."

Jon lets out a relieved sigh at the knowledge that the information had come from someone he trusted and that it had not been hearsay.

"He speaks highly of you." She smiles at him, and for the first time he is struck by the beauty everyone else has always seen.

"He's a good man."

She nods. "Yes," her eyes gleam and her lips curve upwards, "although I think Brienne finds him... unnerving."

She watches as his lips twitch and then there is a flash of teeth as his laughter fills her ears and she cannot help but to join in, it is too infectious not to and she has not laughed for a very long time. Jon leans forward, clutching at his belly and laughing merrily as she wipes at her eyes, chuckling.

"Well," he says once he has finally managed to calm down somewhat, "he certainly finds her... enticing."

Another peel of laughter escapes Sansa and it is only when her body has stopped shaking that she realises that she is still gripping his hand with hers. "Thank you, Jon," she says after a long silence, peering down at their hands.

His brows comes together in confusion as he regards her. "For what?"

Her eyes shine with sincerity. "For everything."

Jon's hand slips out of hers as she stands. She eyes the the tents in the distance before looking down at him with tired eyes. "I think I shall retire now."

He gives a small nod. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Jon."

The snow crunches softly underneath her feet as she moves away from him, but she comes to a stop a few paces ahead where she turns back around. "You should get some rest as well."

"I will," he promises. "In a little while."

"You," she begins in a light, slightly teasing voice that he has never heard her use before, "shouldn't keep your dragon waiting."

He can't help but to chuckle to himself as he watches her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to clarify that the characters wearing furs, leather and eating meat has nothing to do with my personal beliefs, I'm against that and I do encourage everyone to educate yourself on the subject of going vegetarian or vegan for the planet, animals and our own health before you sneer at the subject.  
> The reason I have these characters eating meat and wearing furs is because GoT is set in a medieval universe, and I wanted to stay true to what life was back then, it has nothing to do with my own personal beliefs.


	3. Chapter 3

The coming days are grueling. The knowledge that few Houses are willing to rally behind them is bearing down on them all causing conflict to arise from within.

Sansa watches as Jon and his advisers gather around the round worn table in his tent night after night, planning and strategizing, and she feels like screaming because it is not enough. It will never be enough.

She tries to speak to them, tries to warn them of the person Ramsay really is, but they do not heed her warnings. They do quiet down to listen but she can already tell even before the words has left her mouth that they not taking anything she has to say to heart. Their expressions are polite but their eyes are distant as they nod absent-mindedly, and Sansa knows that they are only humouring her.

“If we were to have a trench here and...” Davos continues when enough silence has passed after her words and all the other men around the table turn their attention back to the map displayed on it.

Sansa can barely contain the anger she feels boiling underneath the surface but she schools her face into a passive mask and clasps her slender hands in her lap. Brienne spares her a concerned glance but Sansa ignores it, whatever words of comfort Brienne has she does not wish to hear them.

She sits quietly and listens politely as they forge their plans but once they begin to discuss Ramsay and how they expect him to act without consulting her, she decides it is time to leave. They all turn to look at her as she stands, giving them a polite smile but her voice is cool as she says, “Pardon me, but I think I shall retire for the night.”

She receives several polite nods in response and a chorus of, “Goodnight,” from all of those gathered there with the exception of Tormund who is staring intently at Brienne — who towers over Sansa — with a cocked eyebrow and a smug smile.

“Brienne,” Sansa says, turning to the tall woman, who is now openingly glowering at the Wildling, “you should stay here.”

Brienne's eyebrows come together in a straight line as she regards Sansa with troubled eyes. “My Lady... I do not-”

“It is _my_ wish that you remain here,” Sansa says, cutting her off with a firm voice that leaves no room for argument.

Brienne bows her head and sits back down, pointedly ignoring Tormund's amused eyes.

Sansa, feeling slightly guilty for her curtness gives the woman a small smile. “You have war experience which is why you presence is required here unlike mine.”

Out of the corner of her eye Sansa sees Jon frowning but she pays it no mind, and with a last Goodnight she turns on her heel and exits the tent.

 

Sansa's tent is not located far from Jon's but instead of heading towards it she turns and goes in the opposite direction. She walks with her head held high as she makes her way through the crowd of people who are still awake, tending to the camp.

Once she reaches the outskirts of the camp the snow has begun to fall heavily, coating her auburn hair.

As soon as she steps inside the treeline her carefully composed posture gives away. Her shoulders sag and her chest heaves with ragged breaths as her arms comes around her midsection, holding herself together. She takes several staggering steps forward, ignoring the rasping sound the frost covered branches make as they scratch against her clothes, before she falls against a tree. Her trembling arms wrap themselves around its trunk and she presses her pale cheek against the ice covered bark which slowly begins to melt and trickle its way down her chin.

She stays like that for a long time until her body begins to grow numb from the cold and her cheek prickles painfully. When she can no longer bear the cold she releases her grip on the tree, and with a hitching breath turns back towards the camp.

Somewhere from further up ahead there are shouts of surprise followed by raucous laughter. She becomes rooted to the ground. Her lower lip trembles and her breath flees her as one distinct laughter rings in her ears.

She falls onto the snow covered ground with a soft thud as her knees give out and a bright light flashes before her closed lids. She can feel teeth tearing into her skin, biting and gnawing until they draw blood, followed by the rap lashings of leather against her back until there is nothing left but this excruciating burning pain.

Sansa stays there in the middle of the dark forest until some of the snow begins to melt and seep into the fabric of her skirt, and until the moon sets high above her, illuminating the trees that cast ghostly shadows that dance eerily around her as the trees sway on the wind. The soft hooting of an owl can be heard coming from somewhere above her, followed by the distinct sound of flapping wings. It is to this that she gets back up onto her feet, brushing the snow off of her clothes before schooling her broken expression into an indifferent mask as she re-emerges at the edge of the camp.

There are hardly any people milling about but she draws her hood down over her face as far as it will go before she hastily makes her way through to camp to her own tent, located at the heart of the camp.

Sansa comes to a halt at the entrance of her tent as her eyes land on the hulking figure of Jon, seated on the cot she has been using as a bed. She remains standing where she is, watching as he runs his pale scarred hands through his dark waves. He looks exhausted, she thinks, and wonders when the last time he slept was, Gods know she hasn't had a good night's sleep since their last night at Castle Black.

He looks up as a gust of cold air announces her presence, but he does not say anything as he regards her with weary eyes.

Sansa swallows around the lump that has formed in her throat, pulling her hood down before brushing some snow off of the shoulder of her midnight blue cloak. She waits quietly for him to say something, keeping the flap of her tent open behind her, filling it with cold air, but when he does not speak she steps inside, allowing the flap to fall closed behind her.

She sheds her cloak, draping it over the chair which is kept in the the left corner next to a small desk. With numb fingers she begins to uncoil her long and thick braid all while keeping her back to him.

He sighs deeply. “Sansa...”

“I'm tired, Jon.”

The cot creaks underneath his weight as he gets onto his feet. She can feel the heat emitting from him as he comes up behind her but she does not turn around, keeping her attention on her hair as she pulls at a few stubborn knots in it.

“We leave for Bear Island at first light,” he says and she jerks her head in response.

The cool air licks at her ankles as he opens the flap and prepares to step into the dark night.

“Goodnight, Sansa.”

“Goodnight.”

It is to be a long and restless night for Sansa. She falls into a fitful sleep which she wakes from several times, and each time her bedding grows more and more soaked with sweat while her nightgown clings to her moist skin. She rolls onto her side, twisting the furs between her legs, and pushes her face into her pillow which muffles her whimpered cry. Her breath hitches and her eyebrows furrow as one of her hands clutch tightly at the fur, and then she lets out an ear-piercing scream to which she wakes confused with eyes wide in terror as her heart slams furiously against her chest.

* * *

They cannot help but to be impressed by Lyanna Mormont, one glance at Ser Davos and Sansa knows that he has been won over by the young child. Sansa does appreciate House Mormont's loyalty but it is still not enough...

“We need more men,” she tells Jon desperately once they have arrived at Stannis old camp, trying to make him understand.

“There's no time!”

She shakes her head furiously at him. They need to rally more houses behind them, they cannot remain where they are, content with the men they got, they will be slaughtered if they do.

Jon is equally frustrated with her as he attempts to make her see that there is not enough time — the snow falls heavier with each passing day and they cannot afford to loose any more days by travelling to houses that will not join them.

He escapes their argument when a brawl breaks out between their men, not willing to quarrel with her, and Sansa's stomach drops as she watches him go with agitated eyes.

It is Jon's unwillingness to seek out other allies that drives Sansa to write the letter. 

She clutches it tightly in her hand as she makes her way across the grounds towards the cages the ravens are kept in. They caw at her as she approaches and flap their wings but she takes her time, choosing the one that stays quiet, regarding her with intelligent eyes.

She throws it into the air and watches with her breath caught in her throat as it ascends rapidly towards the white sky. A part of her wishes for it to ride the harsh northern winds swiftly across the land, assuring its quick arrival. Another part of her wishes for it to be thrown off course, for it to break its neck, having the letter disappear with it.

* * *

Sansa wakes screaming with her arms flailing about as she tears out of bed, running for the entrance of the tent with dilated pupils and a look of sheer terror. She stumbles and comes to a sudden halt in the middle of the tent, trembling furiously as she blinks confusedly at her surroundings. Her body jerks uncomfortably as she crawls back into the bed where she pulls the furs over her head while her body shakes as the adrenaline pumps through it, and her teeth rattle against each other as she squeezes her bloodshot eyes shut.

There is the sound of fast approaching footsteps, followed by the sound of the entrance of her tent being thrown open. “Lady Sansa!” A urgent voice calls, and Sansa swallows visibly before sitting up, causing the furs to pool around her trembling frame.

The guard turns his baffled eyes to her after he has surveyed the tent with his sword drawn. “Are you all right? I heard screaming...”

She lifts one shaking hand to brush a few damp strands away from her clammy forehead. “Y-yes, I'm fine... thank you.”

The young guard's hazel eyes flash with embarrassment and his cheeks flush as he regards her nightclothes, he quickly bows his head, mumbling an apology but Sansa does not have enough of her bearings to worry about her decency.

“You may leave.”

He scurries out of the tent in such a haste that he does not have enough time to sheath his sword, while she stares blankly after his retreating figure.

She falls back against her pillows, staring unseeingly up at the ceiling. Her ragged breaths fill the silence as she tries to make sense of her jumbled thoughts, but they swirl around too quickly for her and she only manages to catch glimpses of bloodied hands and cruel eyes.

“It's not real... _it's not real._ Not anymore.”

Somewhere in the distance a howl of a lone wolf can be heard. _Ghost_ , she thinks and sits up, slipping her sock covered feet into a pair of boots positioned underneath her bed. She wraps herself up in her cloak before she slips outside into the frigid night air. She relishes in its burning coldness as she sucks in mouthful after mouthful of crisp air that has relief flooding her as her dreams fades into the background.

Jon is curled up into a ball underneath his furs with his legs drawn up against his chest and his arms wound tightly around them, but it is his intense gaze that catches Sansa off guard.

She stops, suddenly shy. “Can I come in?”

He tilts his chin down in a silent yes and she slips inside, heading for the table that has a few burning candles placed upon it. The worn chair creaks in protest as she sits down on it, and she folds her hands together on top of the table to keep them from fidgeting.

“I heard Ghost,” she says breaking the long silence that has settled between them.

“I heard you.”

A numbing coldness seeps into the tips of her fingers and shivers run their way up her spine. She looks away from him, fastening her gaze on the burning candles. “Why do you not sleep in the dark?”

Jon's fingers dig painfully into his legs and his grey eyes harden as he presses his lips together into a thin line.

Sansa opens her mouth only to close it again, still watching the flames of the candles dance, with furrowed brows. When she does look at him her blue eyes are pained, she licks her parched lips. “I.. I can't sleep,” she confesses, voice breaking. “ _He_ is all I dream about.”

Her russet hair falls around her pale face in a disarray as she looks at him with pleading eyes, begging for something neither of them can give.

Jon's wide shirt slips down ever so slightly as he unfolds himself, and Sansa catches a quick glimpse of several angry red wounds before he takes a seat at the table next to her.

“I'm afraid of what is hiding in it,” he confides in raspy voice.

Sansa does not quite manage to hide the surprise on her face as she looks up at him. It is something that is unfathomable to her, Jon had never feared the darkness before, if anything he and Robb and regarded it a dear friend that had aided them in causing mischief. “Because of the Others?”

He shakes his head causing the chin length waves – which he has taken to tying up into a knot – to fall into his eyes. “No, they don't hide in the dark.

Sansa's mouth grows dry and she has to swallow several times for it to regain its moisture. Frozen bodies with vacant eyes, pale blue lips and unnatural graze pops into her mind and she so desperately wants to ask him about it but this is not about satisfying her curiosity.

“What is it then?”

Jon sighs and rubs a calloused hand over his tired face. “It's them... Thorne, Olly and the others...”

His scarred hand leaves the table – on which it had been resting – to clutch at his chest while he stares at her with such despair it stabs at her heart.

“Jon,” she whispers firmly, holding his gaze with hers, “it's not real. Not anymore.”

He nods slowly but his fingers dig into his chest and his eyes dance worriedly around the tent, catching every movement of the shadows that the candles cast.

Sansa's fingers drum anxiously against the table next to his closed fist. “They're gone,” she says in an attempt to sooth him. “They can't hurt you anymore.”

He flinches at her words and whirls around to face her so fast that she is taken aback.

“They were my brothers! _My_ brothers!” His voice is raw and desperate. “How? How could they do that to me?”

Sansa's eyes are full of pain as she shakes her head at him. “I don't know... I don't know, Jon.”

His nostrils flare and his body trembles with uncontrollable rage and sadness. “I was their brother!”

“No, Jon” she says with finality as she looks at him with earnest eyes, attempting to ease some of his pain. “They weren't your family. _I_ am your family, Arya is your family and so is Bran and Rickon. Family does not betray each other, not ours, but friends do. They were your friends, your fellow brothers in arm and your murderers but never your family.”

A silence settles between them after her speech and neither of them is willing to break it, and Sansa remains unsure if her words has had the impact she wished for them to have.

It is unclear who moves their hand first but somehow they end up brushing against each other, and that is how they succumb to sleep, with Jon resting his cheek against the hard surface of the table – his free hand still clutches at his chest even in sleep – while Sansa rests her head on her arm, facing him.

It is in that position that Ser Davos finds them the coming morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if it feels like I'm dragging things out, but I just really want to establish the foundations of Jon and Sansa's relationship before they get to Winterfell, once they're there the pace should pick up somewhat.
> 
> What did you think? Hate it? Love it? Or just don't care? Let me know!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I just want to clarify that the characters wearing furs, leather and eating meat has nothing to do with my personal beliefs, I'm against that and I do encourage everyone to educate yourself on the subject of going vegetarian or vegan for the planet, animals and our own health before you sneer at the subject.  
> The reason I have these characters eating meat and wearing furs is because GoT is set in a medieval universe, and I wanted to stay true to what life was back then, it has nothing to do with my own personal beliefs.


	4. Chapter 4

A foolish feeling of hope is growing inside of Sansa's chest as she makes her way briskly through the camp, and she tries in vain to quell it. Her gloved hand clutches tightly around the scroll she holds and that she so desperately yearns to read but not out in the open where there are too many prying eyes.

She veers down a muddied path to her left and her tent has just come into view when a shrill shriek penetrates the air. Sansa stops, the scroll is momentarily forgotten as she turns around on the spot looking for the source of the sound.

Her eyes land on a small Wildling girl with long bushy hair and a small button nose, seated on the ground not far from where Sansa is standing. Her small hands are balled into fists as her blue eyes scan their surroundings. She lets another horrifying shriek - that cuts deep on Sansa's heartstrings – but strangely there are no tears brimming in her eyes.

“Hush now,” Sansa consoles as she approaches the child. “What is your name?” she asks, bending down bringing them face to face. The girl stares at Sansa with wary eyes. “I'm Sansa,” she offers when the girl remains stubbornly silent.

A gust of cool air catches at a long tendril of hair that has escaped from underneath Sansa's hood and the girl's eyes follow it as it dances on the wind.

“Willa,” she mumbles in a small voice

Sansa beams at the girl. “That is a very pretty name.”

Willa does not care much for Sansa's compliment instead she continues to watch Sansa's hair as it sways in the air. “Does it hurt?” she ask with wide and excited eyes.

Sansa slightly taken back by the girl's change in demeanour leans back, staring at her baffled. “Does what hurt?”

Willa jabs a finger at the curl. “Being kissed by fire.”

“Kissed by fire...” Sansa repeats slowly.

Willa nods her head eagerly. “No one tells me how it works.”

Sansa who is at a complete loss gives Willa another smile as she leans in closer, whispering, “Well, how do you think it works?”

Willa purses her lips, appearing to be thinking very hard about it. “Well...” she begins in a sing-song voice. “I think you were one of those... those babies that doesn't breath,” she nods vigorously to herself. “Yes, that's it! Gyda's sister was like that when she was born.”

Sansa hums in agreement. “And what did they do to her?”

“They put her in the fire.”

The colour drains from Sansa's face at the child's words and at the ease she utters them with. “They did?”

“Yes! But she died anyway. I think you got warm by the fire and woke up but it turned your hair red.”

Sansa's lips curve into a smile at the child's innocent view of the world. “Yes, that must have been it.”

Willa flashes her a proud and toothy grin. “I knew it! Even though Ygritte wouldn't tell me.”

Sansa's smile falters, she has heard that name before... whispered among the men at Castle Black.

Willa does not notice the change in Sansa's demeanour and continues to chat happily. “She had hair kissed by fire, just like yours!”

“Willa, you sneaky little worm!” Tormund's booming voice comes from behind them.

Willa visibly shrinks together at loud his voice but she quickly juts her chin out and her blue eyes shine with defiance. “I didn't do nothing!”

Tormund snorts before grabbing hold of the back of her pelt jacket, yanking her onto her feet. “If you run away again we'll leave you for the ghouls,” he warns before jabbing a finger at the girl standing next to him, who Sansa had not noticed until she had stepped out from behind Tormund. “Don't run away from Johnna again.”

The similarities between the two girls is uncanny. They both share the same long facial features, button noses and bushy brown hair, the only difference being that Johnna is clearly a few years older than the girl who is now struggling in Tormund's grip, flailing her arms about as she attempts to wiggle out of his hold.

“Did you hear me, girl?”

Willa stops struggling and looks down at her feet. “Yes.”

“Good.” Tormund lets go off her and Johnna quickly grabs hold of her arm, dragging her away all while muttering angrily at her.

Sansa gets back onto her feet, brushing some snow off of her grey woolen dress before craning her neck to look up into Tormund's eyes. “Leave her for the ghouls?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

Tormund's lips twitch. “Aye, it works every time.”

She looks after the girls, watching as Willa twist and turns, attempting to pull her arm free from her sister's grip. “It doesn't seem like it.”

Tormund guffaws and his blue eyes shine with something akin to pride. “She's a lot like her mother that one.”

Sansa turns to him. “Who was her mother?”

The smile vanishes from his lips and she watches as the sparkle in his eyes fades. “Karsi.”

“Karsi was their mother?”

Jon has told her stories about the Wilding woman who had gone against her own people's conviction, trusting a Crow and in doing so allowing the fate of her daughters to rest in her former enemy's hands. He had told her of how she had fought bravely, attempting to get all of the Wildlings onto the boats until she herself had been overcome by Wights.

“She was,” Tormund replies, watching as Johnna drags Willa through the camp towards a group of Free Folk children.

“She was screaming.”

He nods, still staring after the children. “She does that.”

Sansa's eyebrows comes together in a frown. “Why?”

“She began doing it after we arrived at the Crow's nest. I think most of the time it's for attention.”

Sansa's frown deepens at his words but she does not have time to mull on the child's worrisome behaviour, she has more pressing matters at hand. The small scroll suddenly feels very heavy in hand and a sense of urgency overcomes her.

“You will have to excuse me-” she begins in a polite voice but before she can continue Tormund waves a hand at her, dismissing her excuse.

His eyes sparkle with the mischievous glint that she has so often seen him give Brienne. “Is that from your Lady friend.” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

“Yes.”

Tormund's face grows serious at the constricted sound of her voice. He gives her a sharp nod before turning around, disappearing into the throng of people milling about the camp.

Sansa, immensely grateful for his consideration, resumes her previous intentions and heads towards her tent. She reaches it with her breath caught in her throat and with cheeks flushed red from the cold. Her nimble fingers set to work at unrolling the scroll before the flap has had time to fall close behind her, but as her eyes eagerly scan the words she wishes she hadn't been in such a haste to open it.

* * *

 “Jon...”

He turns away from the Red Woman and the frown that had already been marring his features deepens once he locks his stormy gaze with Sansa's.

She flicks her eyes to the red woman – who is watching the both of them intently – as if to say, _not here not now_.

Jon lowers his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement before turning to the Red Woman. “Lady Melisandre, would you be so kind as to excuse us?”

“Of course, my lord,” she sips into small curtsey, that Sansa finds more mocking than anything else, before disappearing out of the tent with one last disconcerting look at Sansa.

“What's wrong?” Jon demands once they are alone.

She hands him the scroll. “It arrived this morning.”

He scans it quickly and his eyes grow more troubled with each passing word. “The Lannisters...”

For the first time in a very long time Sansa's mask slips away and she worries at her lower lip, staring at him wide-eyed. “If the Lannisters and the Freys decide to-”

“They won't.”

She looks at him pleadingly. “You don't know that.”

Jon's fingers clench around the parchment, and his eyes darken with determination. “We won't give them enough time to come.”

Sansa's red hair flies around her face as she shakes her head at him. “No, Jon.”

“There is no other option.” He reaches out for her as if he is about to clasp her shoulders with his hands but quickly stops himself before he gets too close, and his eyes shine with a silent apology while her heartbeat drums loudly in her ears. “Sansa,” he begins in a voice that is both soft and kind, “we need to use the time we have to our advantage.”

Her eyes hold no kindness as she whispers harshly, “We'll be slaughtered.”

Jon runs a frustrated hand through his loose hair before spinning around, bracing his hands against the table where battle lines has been drawn out. “I'm requesting a parley.”

Sansa takes a step back, giving the back of his head an icy glare. She draws in a deep breath through her mouth before swallowing it silently as she watches the muscles in his back ripple. “I will be coming as well.”

He whirls around to look at her with eyes that carries a deep sense of urgency in them. “Sansa, you don't have to c-”

“I _am_ coming.” Her eyes flash dangerously and her hair falls around her in a wild disarray as she stares him down.

He takes a step towards her, slowly reaching out for her with his scarred hand. She watches as it it shakes in the air between them but she feels nothing but for a cold emptiness spreading through her body.

“No,” she says firmly and Jon's hand falls limply to his side.

She leaves without another word being uttered.

Sansa does not feel the cold bite at her skin as she wanders aimlessly through the camp, but she does feel the lump forming in her throat as she passes women preparing food, men training with their weapons and children playing by the fires lit around the camp. These are all people they have condemned to death.

* * *

Sansa spends the remainder of the day helping in any way she can. She carries buckets after buckets of water from the stream that meanders it's way past the outskirts of their camp, until sweat drips down her back underneath her heavy layers of clothing. She helps mend clothes and make Stark banners, sewing for hours until night falls and it is too dark to see the needle in front of you.

“You should rest.”

Sansa looks up from the knife she is cleaning the blood of a rabbit off from. An old Wildling woman with thin stringy grey hair and deep sunken eyes is staring at her from the other side of the fire where she is cleaning out a large pot which an hour earlier had contained a steaming rabbit soup.

“Thank you,” she says, schooling her face into polite smile, “but I'd rather be out here, helping.”

The old woman grunts in appreciation and resumes cleaning the pot. Sansa cannot help but to smile to herself, they are quite amusing the Wildlings. There is no pretence with them. They are blunt and do not shy away from saying their piece of mind despite the title of the person who they are speaking to, and they do not play the conniving games of the southron court.

“What is your name?”

The woman tilts her head to the side, looking at Sansa with brown eyes that shine eerily in the light of the dying fire. “Ragna.”

Sansa twists the knife around in her hand, examining it for any remaining specks of blood. “I'm Sansa Stark.”

Ragna's eyes narrow. “I know who you are.”

Sansa nods, she had not expected anything else but she also felt that it would be best to offer her name before she was to ask the question she has on her mind. “Have you ever seen an Other?”

Ragna's cackling laughter cuts through the air as she throws her head back. “Aye,” she wheezes, clutching at her stomach while tears glisten in her eyes. “Oh how sweet it must be,” she mocks, “to hide behind a wall where your only threat is that of soft lords in their pretty clothes.”

Sansa's straightens, jutting her chin out. “Yes indeed, how _sweet_ it has been.”

Ragna stops laughing then, squinting her beady eyes at Sansa as she points a narrow finger at her. “There's more to you than meets the eye.”

Sansa smirks. “That may be so, but that is not what I wish to discuss.”

“Why not ask your brother?”

Sansa's heart lurches at the mention of Jon, she has not seen him for hours which is by her own device and she can only assume that he has sent word to Ramsay by now. Part of her longs to seek him out, to discuss the matter at hand but another part knows that no matter what she says it will not be enough, and she is so tired of arguing.

“I'm asking you.”

Ragna squints her eyes at her until they are nothing but thin slits. “What is it you want to know, girl?”

Sansa leans forward, her blue eyes shine hungrily in the light of the remaining embers. “What are they like?”

“The Wights are ghastly creatures,” Ragna begins in a coarse voice, “bearing the faces of your father, mother, brothers, sisters and children but only the thirst for blood remains... Their skin is frozen and their eyes take on this glowing colour, very much like that of an ice block but darker. Some of them do not have flesh on their bones, bits and pieces will be missing but there is no blood. They travel in large groups and if you happen upon one, well...” her dark gaze locks with Sansa's blue one, “you will soon be one of them.”

Fear creeps its way up Sansa's spine and she can do nothing but nod at the old woman's words. “Is it true that they have skin of ice?”

“Their leaders do.”

Sansa flicks her tongue along her bottom lip, about to ask another question but Ragna shakes her head. “Ask your brother,” she says, getting onto her feet, disappearing into the darkness.

* * *

Sansa had never given much thought on how long the nights truly were until Ramsay. It was then when her body had been beaten and violated that she had realised how the nights dragged on. They were no longer something you closed your eyes to, escaping to a land where you would see your home only to wake too soon. They were filled with pain and misery, and such things never pass by at the blink of an eye.

That night is a long one, longer than many others Sansa has had to endure, and perhaps it is because of the uncertainty of the coming day. She has not spoken to Jon since their argument and she had made certain to make herself scarce, opting to busy herself whenever their paths had crossed during the remainder of the day. When everyone else had crawled underneath their furs, allowing sleep to claim them she had stayed awake, wandering aimlessly through the camp.

Sansa struggles against her heavy limbs and drooping eyes, refusing sleep to claim her because she knows what awaits her and after today's events she cannot bear it. She shakes her head at herself and reaches up with one slender hand to pull her hood off. She relishes in the way the cold air burns at her as if needles are prickling the skin, making her feel more awake than she has in hours.

She wanders down to the stream, listening to the rippling sound of the water coming from a bit further down. She makes her way down a steep slope and the water comes into view, glimmering in different shades of black and cobalt in the moonlight. They beauty of it leaves her breathless and she sits down at the edge of the bank, loosing herself in the way the water swirls and gurgles softly. If she was to close her eyes she could almost believe that she is back home in Winterfell, seated underneath the Heart tree in the Godswood, with her family only a few yards away, but she does not close her eyes, instead she lies down on the frozen ground with her hair fanning out around her in a fiery halo that soon has ice coating it.

Her eyes subconsciously seek out the Ice Dragon where it rests on the night sky right above her, gazing down at her with its icy blue eyes.

 _'Its pale crystal blue eyes would roam the landscape before it opened its mouth, breathing ice upon it.”_ Jon's words echo in her mind and she tilts her head to the side as she looks up at it thoughtfully. An ice breathing dragon... it cannot be anything but a foe, for he brings the Long Night with him... and yet the Ice Dragon on the night sky has been nothing but a friend to her. _Ramblings of an exhausted mind,_ she thinks to herself just as her lids begin to fall shut but when she realises what is happening they fly open and she draws in a deep breath that burns in her lungs, and momentarily glues her nostrils together. It helps clear her mind but it does not help against her weary body, it has begun to weigh down on her painfully and she does not have the strength to sit up so she stays where she is, blinking up at the Dragon.

There is a quiet sound of hoarfrost covered grass being shuffled around as something moves on the slope above Sansa and then she feels something warm and soft curl itself around. She lifts her head to look into the red eyes of the direwolf, who presses his large snout against her cheek before tilting his head, rubbing his forehead against hers.

Her lower lip splits open as she smiles at the wolf and a droplet of blood makes its way down her chin and onto the grey fabric of her cloak. One of her hands twine into Ghost's warm fur while the other pulls her hood up over her head and down her face until it comes to rest just above her exhausted eyes.

It is in the wolf's warm embrace and underneath the watchful gaze of the Ice Dragon that she succumbs to sleep in the final hours of the night.

* * *

Sansa wakes two hours later to a red hue dawning on the horizon and to the Onion Knight's worried face looking down at her.

“My lady,” he sighs relieved when she blinks up at him, “I thought you were injured.”

Embarrassment floods Sansa's cheeks but the angry red hue from the cold disguises it, and she opts not to injure her dignity any further by offering and excuse that will sound false to both of their ears.

“Can I help you with something, Ser Davos?” she asks, pushing one Ghost's giant paws off of her stomach.

Davos scratches at the back of his head with his hand, looking mildly embarrassed himself. “Jon wishes to speak with you, my lady.”

Sansa nods and is just about to push herself away from Ghost and onto her feet when Davos gloved hand appears in front of her. She stares at it while the blood rushes to her head, leaving her ears ringing.

“My lady?” Davos says with uncertainty.

She takes his hand with a small shuddering breath that is barely visible. “Thank you.”

He pulls her to her feet and once she has found her footing she withdraws her hand from his as if it had been scalding hot. Davos turns without another word, motioning for her to follow him. Sansa has only been able to take a coupe of steps when she feels Ghost brush up against her, his withers reaches her hip bone and she rests her hand on it, twisting her fingers in his fur.

The Wildlings do not pay much attention to the wolf walking by her side but the northern men that has sworn their allegiance to them turn their heads to gawk openly at the odd pair.

When they enter Jon's tent it is filled with people, surrounding the table, looking grim. Jon's head snaps up as he hears them enter and he locks his gaze with Sansa's for a split second, a swirl of emotions pass through his stormy eyes before they settle on her hand resting on Ghost's back.

“That is one truly magnificent beast!” Beren Tallhart – now Hornwood – exclaims, not being able to hide his amazement.

Sansa regards the young man, who is no older than Arya. He is the spitting image of his uncle with his light brown hair, that reaches to just above his broad shoulders and those dark brown eyes, but unlike his uncle he lacks war experience which is obvious in the way he fidgets nervously.

Lyanna Mormornt does not seem all to impressed with Beren Hornwood as she tilts her head to the side, staring at Ghost with those hard eyes of hers that gives nothing away. “I had expected him to bigger,” she says much to Tormund's amusement.

Jon claps his hand together, regaining everyone's attention. “I've gathered you all here to let you know that I have arranged for a parley with Ramsay Bolton tomorrow at noon.”

"Then I shall come with you,” Lord Mazin begins in a gruff voice.

Jon raises one commanding hand, silencing the old pudgy man. “I expected nothing else of you, my lord,” he confesses, allowing his eyes to wander over every single person gathered there before they reach Sansa where they linger for a moment. “I expect nothing less of any of you which is why I had you all summoned. We will set out to meet Ramsay Bolton tomorrow and afterwards we will prepare for the war that will follow.”

There is not much to be said after that and they all depart from the tent with even grimmer looks on their faces than before. Sansa is just about to follow behind Tormund when Jon stops her.

“Sansa, a word please.”

She turns back to him with her hands clasped in front of her, thankful that she had not removed her gloves earlier since they now hide the whiteness of her knuckles. “Yes?”

He sighs and runs a shaking hand through his hair. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she replies in the same polite but distant voice as before which has him visibly wincing. “Are you?” she asks, noticing the dark shadows underneath his eyes.

He comes around the table but makes sure to keep a wide berth between them as he studies her silently. “Aye,” he says finally, leaning back against the table with a disappointed look.

Her hands fall to her sides, where they are concealed by her cloak. “Good.” She clenches her hands into tight fists.

Jon does not say anything else, he just watches her with those sad grey eyes that makes her mind reel in confusion.

“I'm going to help tend to the camp,” she tells him, breaking the thick silence that has settled between them.

"Sana,” he calls once more when she has turned her back to him.

She stops but does not turn back around.

“I need Ghost tonight?”

Sweat gathers along her brow as she peers over her shoulder at him. “Are you going somewhere?”

He does not quite meet her eyes as he says in a voice devoid of any emotion, “I'm doing one last scouting of the battlefield.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of thrones!
> 
> There will be a second disclaimer at the end of the chapter.
> 
> IMPORTANT: My computer crashed which is why there hasn't been any updates. I do not know if they will be able to repair it or if I should just by a new one and because of that I don't know when I will be able to update again.
> 
> I will also be travelling so my life is a bit hectic right now but I do hope that despite of all this you all will want to continue to read this story.
> 
> Right now I'm using a computer from the stoneage and it is just to get this one chapter out and since it took three hours just to get this computer to start and then open internet etc I don't think I'll be writing anything else on it.
> 
> Just a tiny sidenote: I did not necessarily make Sansa shorter I made Jon taller, besides I base their appearances more on the books anyway.

“It's funny isn't it?” Sansa asks, watching as Jon's shoulders tense before relaxing once he realises that it is her.

“What is?” he wonders, turning his back on his onyx steed to look at her.

She gives him a wry smile before tilting her face up, regarding the white sky above. “It's warmer today.”

Jon frowns at her as he attempts to grasp the true meaning behind her words but it is too befuddling. “I hadn't given it much thought.”

This time Sansa's smile is genuine as she turns her face to give him an amused look. “It is only that it has been biting cold for days, and now... when you would expect it to be so it is warm.”

She cannot help but to let out a melodious laugh at the perplexed look he gives her, which has Tormund spinning around to stare at them with knitted eyebrows before turning back around to his horse all while muttering about the madness of kneelers.

“It was a silly thought,” Sansa confesses as she hoists herself up into her saddle.

Jon climbs atop his steed as well but he peers over his shoulder for one more glance at her only to find that the smile is gone, replaced by a hard expression as she stares ahead of herself.

He looks up at the sky with a frown marring his features, it is warmer today...

* * *

 They hear sound of fast approaching horses before they see them coming into view over the top of the steep hill.

Jon spares Sansa a glance and leans ever so slightly to his right, murmuring quietly for only her ears to hear, “You don't have to be here.”

Her gaze does not waver. “Yes, I do.”

They listen to Ramsay talk, watch him smile his sardonic smile with grim faces and hear his demands, but it is not his words that cut deeply through them... it is Sansa's. Her eyes are chilled, turning them same shade of blue as the Ice Dragon's as she regards Shaggydog's head thrown so carelessly onto the frozen ground.

When she lifts her eyes to look at the man that has brought her such horror it is with a cool and steely gaze that wipes the smug smile off of his face as she says, “You are going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well.”

She does not see how his lips curve into another smile or how his piercingly blue eyes glint with nefarious pleasure, but she does not need to... 

* * *

They quarrel again that night after everyone else has left them alone, and Sansa is so tired of it.

She looks at Jon pleadingly, desperately begging him not to become overconfident. He may believe that he had gotten the better of Ramsay, and perhaps he had in that moment on that dreadful field but Ramsay is going to use that to his advantage and turn it against Jon. They are all underestimating Ramsay's callousness, believing that they have some inkling as to how his mind works after one meeting with the man, but they do not. Ramsay had only allowed them to see what he had wanted them to see.

“What should I do differently?!”

“I don't know! I don't know anything about battles!” Sansa realises immediately how useless her words are and how stupid they make her sound, a stupid _little_ girl.

Jon shakes his head at her in frustration causing a cold fear to grip painfully at her heart as she takes a step closer to him, shaking her clasped hands in the air, begging him. “Just... just don't do what he wants you to do.”

His hands fall to his sides as he stares at her with patronising eyes. “Aye,” he says coldly, “that is good advice.”

Sansa's temper flares as she attempts to make him see the crucial mistake he is about to make if he does not listen to her, but the words that leave her lips are just as heated as his and neither of them can come to an agreement, but then she says something that has them both freezing on the spot.

“If Ramsay wins I'm not going back there alive. Do you understand me?”

Jon grapples with the right thing to say but even then he knows just as she does that no matter the sincerity behind his words it will never be enough, but he has try.

“I won't _ever_ let him touch you again.”

The silence that descends upon them is a heavy one, and they both feel as if they have entered unknown territory, one they have had an unspoken agreement not to breach.

“No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone.”

Jon closes his eyes as she leaves, feeling as if invisible ropes has coiled themselves around his limbs, attempting to drag him down into the dark abyss that waits below. He blinks, looking down at the map laid out on the table before him and a sigh escapes past his lips as he falls forward, bracing his fisted hands against the table, with her words still echoing in his mind.

_I'm not going back there alive._

The table groans as he pushes away from it with newfound determination, intent on seeking out the Red Woman.

* * *

A bile of vomit burns its way up Sansa's throat before spilling out past her lips in a heavy clump where some of it tangles in her braid that hangs limply over her right shoulder. Her eyes begin to water as another bile rises in her throat, leaving behind a sour taste just as a child's agonised cries echo inside her mind, tarnishing her illusion of a sweet summer child.

Sansa retches until there is nothing left but an acrid phlegm and when nothing of that remains she falls back against an old tree as sweat gathers along her brow and cupid's bow. Her hands fumble with the heavy fabric of her cloak, growing frantic when they become twisted in it which has her clawing at it until she finally manages to throw it aside so that she can unsheathe the dagger that is attached to her hip.

Its silver blade gleams brightly in the soft moonlight as she holds it up to her face, twisting it around. Her eyes settle on the hilt where a single blue gem has been placed. It is a beautiful dagger, Sansa had thought so the moment Brienne had placed it in her hands after she had asked for a weapon, and now more then ever she is glad for it as her eyes travel along the swirling engravings that adorns the blade.

It is the sound of fast approaching footsteps that has Sansa's hand tightening around the hilt as she stares at the dark figure. Realisation dawns upon her as she watches the silent way he weaves his way through the trees, with his cloak billowing out behind him. Her eyes grow wide as the scent of sick penetrates her senses, and she closes them. _Go away._

He does not turn around, if anything his eyes harden with determination, the hoarfrost crunch underneath his boots. He comes to a stop as his eyes land on the gleaming dagger in her hand and then shifts to the pool vomit by her side.

Sansa releases a ragged breath and opens her eyes, displaying defeat. “Go away.”

He hesitates with his body turned sideways but then his dark eyes settle on her face and he gives a determined shake of his head. “No.”

She shuts her eyes tightly and slams her head back against the tree's trunk. “Just leave me alone!”

“No,” he says resolutely before sitting down next to her.

Sansa refuses to open her eyes, hoping that if she stays like that long enough he will eventually tire and leave her be, but as the minutes tick by and nothing can be heard but for his soft breathing and her ragged one, she realises that he will not let her win this time.

Her cheeks burn with humiliation as she opens her eyes to glare at him. “What do you want from me, Jon?”

“I do not want to be at odds with you... not tonight.”

A lump forms at the back of Sansa's throat and tears burn in her eyes. She wishes that he was not there to see her like this but his words keep ringing in her ears and all she can think of is how she will never see him again after this night. Perhaps it is that knowledge that makes her do it or perhaps it is the raw need to feel something - something other but this cold crippling fear that grips at her heart - that makes her do it.

The dagger falls to the ground with a soft thud as Sansa throws her arms around Jon, pressing her face against his jerkin, not caring about the vomit that coats her hair. He sighs deeply and rests his chin atop her head, wrapping his arms around her before pulling her even closer than what she had already been.

They stay like that for a very long time, neither of them willing to let go as they clutch desperately at the other, relishing in how alive they both are to each other in that moment.

Sansa is the first one to break the silence as her wandering thoughts become too much. “Jon?” she whispers, tightening her grip on him.

She can feel his lips move against the crown of her head before his voices reaches her ears. “What is it?”

“What did he threaten you with?”

Jon's brows comes together in a frown and he draws back slightly to look down at her. “What do you mean?”

She tilts her head, looking up at him with sad eyes. “Ramsay. What did he threaten you with?”

Confusion clouds his eyes as he thinks of Rickon's looming fate but she had been there for that exchange. “The hounds,” he says, unable to think of anything else.

She nods. “His favourite toys.”

“He has been starving them.”

Sansa stiffens in his arms as images of what awaits them on the morrow flash through her mind. Those beasts had been vicious before but now after having been starved for days...

“For how long?”

Jon leans back against the tree, pulling her to him. “Seven days.”

“Don't,” she begins in a voice filled with raw desperation as she clutches tightly at his cloak, “let him capture you.”

She does not see how he closes his eyes at her words or how he mouths a silent prayer to the Old Gods, begging them to keep her safe. “I've arranged for Arrec Altin to keep you safe... if anything were to go wrong.”

Sansa hears the silent plea in his words, asking her to not do anything foolish, but she knows better than to take it into consideration. When Ramsay wins he will come for her and there will be no hiding away at Castle Black this time. She cannot go any further north and there is nothing but misery awaiting her in the south. Jon does not know Ramsay but she does which is why she is content with the fate she has chosen for herself.

She does not wish to argue any more than he does and so instead she mumbles a tired thank you which Jon knows not to be sincere but he decides to let it go, growing more resolute to defeat Ramsay.

“Sansa,” he says when the silence has lasted long enough.

“Yes?”

“I want you to keep Ghost with you.”

She pulls away from him to stare up at him with distraught eyes. “No! You have t-”

He shakes his head. “A battlefield is no place for a direwolf.”

Sansa's thoughts stray to the tales of battle she has heard about Robb and how Grey Wind had been there by his side but before she can point this out Jon shakes his head, having read her expression which for once is just as easy to read as an open book.

“He will be shot through by an arrow or get trampled to death.”

Sansa stays quiet but they way she lowers her eyes to the ground shows her relent and Jon lets out a relived sigh.

“We should get back,” she says but makes no attempt to get up.

“We should.”

Jon does not attempt to get up either, if anything he pulls her closer to him and they both relish in the comfort the other's arms provide. Sansa thinks that perhaps she ought to apologise for what is about to happen to Rickon and for what Jon is about to see the coming day but she decides against it. She does not wish to cause him any more pain than what he is already in.

“You should rest,” she tells him instead, realising how late it is and how vital it is for him to get a few hours of sleep, no matter how restless.

Jon scoffs at her words but not scornfully, it is a sad almost mournful sound, and looks down at her with burdened eyes. “I can't sleep but you already know that.”

It is his words that spur Sansa into action. She gives a slight wriggle and he allows his arms to fall away from her so that she can stand, looking down at him with determination.

“Come,” she demands, holding out a hand to him.

Sansa ignores the prying eyes that follow them as she leads Jon through the camp to his tent, and when his grip slackens she tightens her own, giving anyone that dares to look at them questioningly a narrow-eyed glare.

Once they are inside Jon's tent she pushes him towards the bed before turning back around but she does not leave, instead she goes over to the small worn bowl placed on top of and old drawer Jon has been using as a wash basin.

“Sansa...”

“No.”

She takes notice of the half full bucket of water that has been placed beside the drawer and bends down to retrieve it before pouring some of the cold water into the bowl.

“People will talk.”

Sansa's fingers which had been working at uncoiling her braid stills. “There might not be anyone left to gossip about it in a couple of hours.”

The striking truth of her words rings loudly in Jon's ears and prevents him from uttering any further objections.

He sheds himself of his cloak, gloves and boots before lying down on the bed where he draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms tightly around them as he watches her clean the vomit from her hair.

Once Sansa is done she takes the cloak she had discarded onto one of the chairs and dries her hair as best as she can with it. She had not been able to locate a cloth to use and she had not been willing to wake Jon over such a trivial thing.

Her footsteps fall softly against the floor until she comes to a halt by his beside where she looks down at Jon, watching as his mouth twitch and his eyes move frantically underneath his eyelids. Her eyes travel down to his arms which clench tightly around his legs that he hugs to his chest.

He lets out a a small noise of discontent, drawing his knees up to underneath his chin. “No!”

“Jon,” she whispers, taking hold of his shoulders.

He does not still if anything his body grows more rigid underneath her touch and the small unintelligible noises of discomfort he had been making grows louder and more aggressive.

“Jon.”

“NO!”

“Jon!”

His eyes fly open, wide and wild. A furious bellow escapes him as he lunges towards her but she had been expecting it which is why his hands clutch at empty air.

“Jon,” she begins in a calm and steady voice from over by the table. “Jon, it is all right. You're fine, you are safe.”

He makes another attempt of lunging at her but she steps behind the table, keeping a safe distance between them.

“Jon,” she soothes, “it's all right. I promise.”

The crazed look in his eyes remains but his muscles begin to relax and he lowers his hands that had been raised defensively in front of him. It takes several more minutes of his body trembling before the cloud of fear leaves his eyes and for confusion to take its place.

“Sansa?”

She takes a step back, moving slowly around the table to not startle him.

“Yes, it is me.”

His eyes shifts from her to the disarray of furs on the bed and then back to her again. “I...” his voice cracks and a look of confusion passes over his agonised features. “Where are they?”

Sansa does not need to ask who it is he speaks of. “They are dead.”

The fight drains from Jon's body and he sinks back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. “Seven hells.”

Sansa's shoulder brushes against his as she takes a seat next to him. “It will fade.”

He sighs. “I know.”

“Jon?”

“Aye?”

“Tell me more about the Ice Dragon.”

He lifts his head from his hands and gives her a puzzled look. “What?”

Sansa smiles, bumping her shoulder against his. “The Dragon, tell me about it.”

It is her intense and unrelenting gaze that finally has Jon giving in to her peculiar request.

He tells her about how the Dragon's hoarfrost covered body would crackle as it soared on the harsh northern winds, and about how its rockhard body would break each time it flapped its gigantic wings, just like an ice covered lake would when the water pushed up against it. He talks about how it would cause frostbite to those who dared to touch it but how it had not harmed his hands and how they in return had not harmed its skin.

He gives a long and detailed description about how the translucent wings had chimed softly as they had soared through the sky, and about how the thin wings had gleamed brilliantly in the dark the same way freshly fallen snow would.

Jon is so immersed in his story that has not noticed that they have laid back on his bed at some point. He talks until his throat becomes sore and his words begin to slur and his lids heavy with sleep flutter closed, leaving him with one clear image of an ice dragon soaring above a battlefield before opening its large beak like mouth to breath ice upon it. 

* * *

 Sansa wakes to a warm and heavy weight settling on her stomach and to the sound of hushed voices. She blinks open her bleary eyes to find Ghost standing by the bed with his large head on her stomach, regarding her with those red eyes of his that she finds far too intelligent for an animal.

One of Sansa's hands finds its way out from underneath Jon's cloak to stroke the soft fur behind his right ear. “Hello boy,” she whispers, looking around the tent. “Where's Jon?”

Ghost holds her gaze for a moment longer before turning his head towards the tent's entrance from which Sansa realises the voices had been coming.

It is too difficult to decipher what is being said with the other noises of the camp drowning out the words but Sansa recognises Jon's voice instantly. She quietly slips out of the bed, making her way to the flap, taking care to not cast any shadows that will give her away as she leans in closer to listen.

“Don't go to Castle Black.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Take her as far South as possible... and then take her across the Narrow Sea.”

“I will, my lord. I swear it on my life.”

“I know you will, Arrec. Stay off all roads and whatever you do, do not go into any villages, no matter what. Stick to the forest and do not trust anyone.”

Sansa hears the heartfelt whisper of agreement before the man leaves in a haste, shouting to have two horses readied. She does not have enough time to make it back to the bed before Jon re-enters the tent, and so she takes a step back, straightening her back and locking her gaze with his.

Jon's gaze does not waver as he steps towards her, slowly lifting his hands which he then grasps her arms with when she does not step away from him. “Don't” he begins in a gruff voice, “do anything foolish.”

Sansa's own hands find their way to his forearms, clutching tightly at them. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

He chuckles but it is a mirthless sound, devoid of the happiness she had heard in his laughter back at Castle Black when it had only been the two of them, alone in a warm chamber without of the knowledge of their fates looming ahead of them.

“We are ready to leave.”

Nausea rolls in Sansa's stomach and a cold fear grips at her heart, sending shivers running through her body. “You should have woken me.”

Jon's eyes are tender as he reaches out with his burned hand, brushing a  few strands of hair behind her ear. “I know.” He strokes his scarred thumb along her cheek.

Sansa closes her eyes and brings one hand up to close around his, holding it to her cheek. “Be careful.”

Jon laughs and this time it is with a sad joy at the warmth her words bring him. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

Her blue eyes glisten with unshed tears as she opens them to look at him. “Thank you, Jon.”

His hand is warm and alive against her cheek as he leans in closer. “For what?”

“For _everything_ ,” she says with sincerity. “For forgiving me-” Jon begins to protest but she shakes her head, clutching at his hand. “No, listen to me, it's important. Thank you for forgiving me for my horrible treatment of you when we were children, and thank you for being there for me.” She draws in a shaky breath before looking up into his eyes, surprised to see her own expression mirrored in his. She gives him a watery smile. “There's not many people that would do what you have done for me.”

Jon looks as if he is about to say something but then the Onion Knight steps through the entrance, bringing with him a cold gust of air.

Davos lowers his eyes to the floor at the sight of them standing so close to each other, and mutters an apology as Sansa takes a step back from Jon, who is giving the older man his full attention.

“What is it Ser Davos?”

The man looks up from the floor with a grim expression on his worn face. “We are ready to depart.”

Jon gives a curt nod. “I will be with you shortly.”

Davos inclines his head and is about to take his leave when Sansa stops him. “Ser Davos!”

“My lady?”

“We might not always have seen eye to eye,” she begins, earning herself a small smile, “but I want you to know how grateful I am to you for all you have done for us and for what you are about to do.” She steps up to him, momentarily hesitating as she holds out her hand to him, but she fights against the crippling fear and forces herself to take hold of his hand. “I will forever owe you my gratitude.”

Davos's grip is gentle and careful as he tightens it before releasing her hand entirely. “Thank you, my lady.”

Jon comes up behind her as Davos exits the tent. “Keep Ghost with you at all times.”

Sansa turns to look at the wolf that has come to stand next to him, brushing up against his leg. “I will,” she promises.

Jon gives Ghost a soft nudge with his hand and the wolf slips away from his side to come and stand next to Sansa. “Good.”

They exit the tent together, both of them with their heads held high and with matching grim faces as they regard the men standing before them, awaiting their command. Sansa slips away from Jon's side as he goes to share a few words with Lyanna Mormont. Ghost follows her like a silent shadow as she approaches the tall Wildling, who for once is looking rather serious while he exchanges words with the impressive giant that towers by his side.

“Tormund,” she says in a smooth voice.

He inclines his head at her. “Girl.”

Sansa smiles despite herself. “I wanted to thank you.”

Tormund cocks one ginger eyebrow at her words but does not say anything, Sansa had not expected him to however as she turns to rejoin Jon he shouts after her, “Id' rather you persuaded that warrior woman of yours to...” he trails of, waggling his eyebrows suggestingly at her.

“I'm afraid you are trying to persuade the wrong woman,” she calls back before leaving with his booming laughter echoing behind her.

Lyanna gives Sansa a curt nod as she joins their party to which Sansa responds with one of her own before turning to Jon who is readying his horse. “It is colder today.”

Jon peers up at the clear sky, allowing the crisp air to fill his lungs where it burns before it slowly ebbing away. “Aye,” he replies with a trace of a smile.

It is unclear who it is that makes the first move but soon they find themselves in each others arms. Sansa clings to him, pressing her face against his chest where the mixed scent of leather, smoke and sweat penetrates her senses. Jon tighten his arms around her and squeezes his eyes shut as he buries his face in the crock of her neck, breathing in the scent of water, snow and smoke that lingers on her skin.

One of his hands trails down her back to her side where they encounter the outline of her dagger. His grey eyes are hard and filled with a storm of emotions as he gives her a warning look before pulling away.

“Jon,” Sansa whispers for only his ears to hear. “Don't become too confident.”

She swallows around the lump that forms in her throat as his eyes harden at her words and at the curt nod she receives before he mounts his steed, but she holds his gaze with one of her own until he turns his horse around and marches their meager army out of the camp.

* * *

 The coming hours are horrid. The wait is the most excruciating thing Sansa has ever had to endure, and she spends her time wandering through the camp with Ghost at her heels, tending to the children and the elderly in a futile attempt to keep her mind occupied but every time she closes her eyes all she can see is bruised and broken bodies with vacant eyes.

Things does not get any better when a wail of a small Wildling child pierces the silence as he cries for his father. Sansa is the one to scoop up the boy, who is no older than what Rickon had been the last time she had seen him. He clings to her, wrapping his thin arms tightly around her neck as his small body shakes with sobs.

“Hush now,” she whispers, combing a hand through his dirty blond curls.

She looks around for the boy's mother but all she finds are rows of Wildling children, all looking up at her through wide and fearful eyes, and realisation dawns upon her. These children's parents have just marched to their deaths if they have not already met a fate far more terrible than death.

Sansa sits with them, stroking away tears from their pale cheeks and holding them to her as she tells tales of a better time where children would roam happily through the fields. She tells them about a warm court inside a stone castle, resting on top of hot springs that you could swim in for hours and hours, exploring the world of the steaming caves. She talks about the high towers there are to climb and of the view they have to offer, and how if you climb the highest tower it will feel as is you are a bird, soaring high on sky when the wind blows around you. Sansa talks until the fear ebbs from the children's eyes and there is nothing else remaining but a childlike wonder for this magnificent place.

“My lady,” a voice interrupts just as Sansa is in the middle of a story about the woods outside the castle.

She looks up at young man Jon had assigned as her guard. He is no older than fifteen with a shock dark hair and deep blue eyes, filled with worry.

“What is it?”

He pulls forth a small scroll from inside his breast pocket. “A raven has arrived for you.”

Sansa's breath catches in her throat as she regards the parchment with uncertain eyes. “Willa,” she calls, turning to the young girl who is seated in the middle of the group of children. “Why don't you tell the others about what you would do at the castle I have been telling you about?”

Willa squares her shoulders and nods eagerly as the other children turn their attention to her.

Sansa brushes some snow off of her dress as she gets back onto her feet, before taking the scroll from Arrec's outstretched hand with trembling fingers. It takes her several attempts to break the seal and when she does she keeps it folded, closing her eyes for a brief second, silently hoping. Her eyes scan the hastily written words once, twice and then thrice before she turns to the young man with an urgent look in her eyes. “Ready my horse.”

* * *

 Sansa's braid flies through the air behind her, shimmering in different shades of red and gold as she rides hard towards the fast approaching cavalry. She recognises Littlefinger golden clad atop his steed at the front and when he sees her he raises one commanding hand, halting his forces.

“Sansa!” He smiles as she reaches him but Sansa has no time for his games and so she turns her horse around, coming up beside him.

“Lord Baelish, I am forever grateful for your assistance but time is sparse at the moment.”

There is a dark glimmer in Littlefinger's eyes as he looks from her to the slightly disgruntled Arrec by her side but when his eyes settle on the large direwolf that roams beneath Sansa's horse, his smile slowly fades away. “Of course, my lady.”

The ground shakes as thousands of hooves thunder over it, leaving nothing behind but trampled mud.

 

When they do get to the field the battle is almost lost and the remaining Stark forces are being slaughtered as the Bolton army's phalanx closes in on them. Their battle horn tears through the cries of dying men and the ground shakes as the Vale's army descends into the chaos.

The stench of death penetrates Sansa's senses and her eyes fall on the bodies littering the ground, colouring it red. There are mounds of mounds of dead, their broken bodies fill the air with the stench of piss and blood that makes Sansa's stomach roll and her heart beat wildly against her chest as she images Jon lying somewhere among them.

It all happens too quickly for Sansa to fully comprehend it, suddenly the Vale's forces have broken through the Bolton's phalanx and soon nothing remains of their army as hundreds and hundreds of men are slaughtered. Sansa hears Littlefinger say something to her right but all she can focus on is two small figures giving chase after a retreating rider, followed closely by a giant. Littlefinger has not even finished his sentence when she spurs her horse into motion, tearing across the the battlefield as a crimson streak in the bleak landscaped, followed only by a white wolf.

 Sansa throws herself off of her horse when she hears Jon's angry bellow coming from inside the courtyard, and darts over the muddy ground, crossing the gate's entrance where she finds Wun Wun's large body taking up half of it. Firm arms catch her around her waist, pulling her to a stop as she attempts to reach the two men sprawled out on the ground.

“Wait,” Tormund hisses in her ear before releasing her.

Sansa does wait, listening to Jon's grunts and the sickening crunch of Ramsay's skull being beaten in by Jon's fists. She waits as Ramsay's eyes fill with blood and the skin on Jon's knuckles break, she waits until Ramsay's head rolls lifelessly to the side and his eyes stare unseeingly up at the sky, that is when a cold fear grips at her. A fear of Ramsay having died without her being there for him to look at, without her being there to see the look in his eyes as he realises that it is all over.

It is that fear that has her approaching them, staring down at her berserk brother beating her tormentor to death. Jon chooses that moment to glance up and when he sees her standing there the fight seems to drain out of his body as he draws in several ragged breaths, looking at her with savage eyes before letting go of his prey, turning his back on the both of them. 

* * *

 Sansa is the one that gives the order to have the Bolton's sigils cut down and burned and to replace them with the Stark ones while Jon disappears back out onto the battlefield with Davos and Tormund. She also request that the remainder of their camp that had stayed behind is to be brought to Winterfell, sending out a small group of riders to escort them there safely.

She does not recognise Rickon. His face has been mangled beyond recognition, and his body which had been small and lithe – just like the child she had held in her arms earlier that day – is tall and broad, nothing like the innocent little boy she remembers. It is the saddened look in Jon's eyes that lets her know that she is gazing down at the body of her youngest brother.

“I'm going to bury my brother in the crypt, next to my Father.” Jon closes his eyes, refusing to look at her as he turns to leave but her voice stops him.

“Jon.”

He turns back around reluctantly, looking at her warily.

“Where is _he_?”

* * *

By the time Ramsay wakes darkness has fallen and a fresh layer of snow covers the bloodstained ground. Sansa stands tall, watching him through the bars of the kennel with an impassive expression as he tries to goad her.

“You can't kill _me_. I'm part of you now.”

The truth of his words ring clear in her ears but she refuses to give more of herself to him. This is not something he can take, it is something she will retake.

“Your words will disappear. Your house will disappear.” Her gaze is as hard as steel as she looks at him. “All memory of you will disappear.”

Sansa swears to herself then and there as she watches his beloved hounds tear into his flesh that she will not allow him to haunt her forever, he will not hold such power over her.

It is to that thought that she turns around with a smile playing on her lips as his agonised screams echo through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Disclaimer: The description of the Ice Dragon is taken from George R.R Martin's book The Ice Dragon, I take no credit for that. Some quotes such as the exchange between Sansa and Ramsay is taken directly from season six episode nine Battle of the Bastards again I take no credit for that.
> 
> What did you think?
> 
> Which part was your favourite in this chapter?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I apologise for the spelling mistakes that will be in this but it's late and this computer is giving me a headache so I'll fix them when I get my own back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Game of thrones! Some parts are taken directly from Game of thrones, season 6 episode 10 The Winds of Winter, I take no credit whatsoever for that.
> 
> I want to point out that this story is a mix of the show and the books, and though it follows the show more closely than the books (for obvious reasons) there will be aspects in this story from the books that the show has left out. Jon will be a skinchanger just as Bran and Arya in the books, in fact all Stark children in this story have the ability but most of them are not aware of it.
> 
> Another more important thing is that I went back and edited a few chapters so that Jon has a burned hand in this story.
> 
> I'm aware that Bran was pushed off the First Keep by Jaime in the books, in the show I'm not sure if it was the Broken Tower or the First Keep, I think it might have been the Broken Tower? Anyhow in this it was the Broken Tower.

It is long into the night when all the wounded have been tended to are being looked after that Sansa finally decides to seek Jon out, with bloodstained clothes and freshly scrubbed hands. She had seen him for fleeting moments during the night, watching as he carried in wounded men from the battlefield, or hearing his voice give commands of what was to be done, but now as she wanders through the nearly empty castle nothing greets her but old ghosts.

Sansa's fingers trail along the warm stones of the castle's walls as she makes her way through its halls. She swears that she can smell the sweet scent of the blossom water her mother used to dab her skin with, she can hear her father's booming laughter with each step she takes, followed by Robb's infectious one and Arya's gleeful giggling. She feels the soft weight of Lady's body against her knee and hears Bran's excited voice coming from somewhere down the corridor, accompanied by Jon's kind murmur, but it is as she rounds the corner that leads to her mother's chamber that she feels a small and soft hand slip into hers, and hears his innocent voice whisper,  _Where have you been?_

A tear slides down Sansa's cheek. The scents and the voices disappear and nothing but a cold stark chamber greets her, devoid of everything that had once made it her mother's.

Sansa turns her back on the room,  _he isn't here. He would never be here._

She slips down the steps that lead to the floor below where she soon finds herself outside of Jon's old room and that is when the sudden truth that she has never been there before strikes her. Her heart plummets in her chest as the door creaks open, revealing the empty room. It is larger than a servant's but significantly smaller than the spacious chambers her siblings and she had had... her mother's doing.

Sansa looks for him in the courtyard but the only men she finds there are a group of Wildlings and Tormund, standing over what looks to be daggers made out of melted ice that has then been frozen again, but instead of being the crystalline white colour that makes ice look almost blue, the daggers are of an obsidian black that glimmer in the moonlight.

"Tormund," she calls as she approaches the group.

The red-haired man turns. "Sansa Stark."

She peers down curiously at the daggers and the tall man steps aside, giving her a clear view of them. "Dragonglass," he says nodding at them.

Sansa bends down, taking one dagger in her hand, marvelling at its light weight. "I have never seen it before."

"We had more," an elderly man with wiry body confesses, regarding her with round brown eyes from underneath a pair of white and bushy eyebrows. "This was all we could salvage."

Sansa sets the dagger back down with care. "This," she says, gesturing at the meagre display of weapons as she gets back onto her feet, "is better than nothing at all."

The old man gives her a crooked smile. "Aye."

Sansa turns towards Tormund, who is watching her thoughtfully. "I trust you will keep it safe?"

For once there is no playful glint in his eyes as he looks down at her. "Aye, I will."

Her hair falls out from underneath her hood as she gives him a thankful nod. "Good."

She catches the other men glancing at the locks that shimmer in the light of the oil lantern. It is a look she has grown accustomed to receive from the Wildlings which is more often than not followed by whispers of being kissed by fire.

Her eyes flicker up to Tormund's bare head, watching as his hair gleams in a similar shade of red. He cocks one eyebrow at her and tilts his head to the side, waiting...

"Have you seen him?" she asks. "Have you seen Jon?"

Her jerks his head towards the old inner yard where the Burned Tower looms as a dark shadow against the moonlit sky.

"Thank you."

* * *

The last time Sansa had climbed the steps of the dark and dank tower it had been with raw desperation clutching at her heart as the wind had whistled eerily through the broken ceiling. Every step she had taken had been laden with pain and she had had to brace herself against the cool stones of the wall as blood had trailed down her back, soaking her dress.

This time fear grips at her heart with each step she takes but it is the uncertainty of what she will find that scares her. The way Jon had looked at her as she had demanded to know Ramsay's whereabouts has been etched into her mind. She sees that look now as she climbs the old stone steps, and it is it that has her bracing herself against the wall, taking a deep breath before she forces herself to continue on.

Jon stands with his back to her, looking down through the glassless window at the dark courtyard below. Sansa swallows and sets the oil lantern down on the filthy floor, where it casts ghostly shadows that dance around her feet as she takes a tentative step forward.

She reaches out for him with one trembling hand and parts her dry lips about to attempt to mend the rift she has caused between them when his voice breaks the silence.

"This is where it all truly began."

Sansa's hand slowly falls to her side and she steps around him to stare down at the light layer of snow that has fallen onto the ground below.

"He should not have been able to survive it," she says, remembering her mother's terrified wail as she had found Bran lying broken on the ground with skin paler than snow and his body bent in ways that should not have been possible.

"Sometimes people do."

It is the darkness in Jon's voice that has Sansa looking at him. "Do you wish you had not?"

He presses his scarred hand to his chest. "I didn't."

Sansa's nails dig into the palms of her hands. "Do you wish you had not been brought back?"

Jon braces one arm against the side of the window, leaning forward to peer down at the entrance to the crypts. "It hasn't brought anything good with it."

A chills spreads through Sansa's body at his words, freezing the blood in her veins and making her hands grow numb. "Jon," his name is nothing more but a broken whisper.

He shakes his head and hides his face against his arm.

"Don't," she says, reaching for him with a trembling hand, "don't ever think that." Her hand closes around his taut shoulder and his body stiffens underneath her touch. "The North would not be free if it wasn't for you.  _I_ would not be here if it weren't for you."

"Rickon," he whispers brokenly. "Rickon is not here."

Sansa's hand falls limply to her side. "I'm sorry."

There are no tears in Jon's eyes as he lifts his face to look at her, instead there is just this immens sadness.

" _I'm sorry."_

He shakes his head, turning his back on her, leaving her with a stricken expression as he limps towards the stairs.

"I didn't know!"

He stops at the landing, and Sansa watches with her chest heaving as the muscles in his broad shoulders ripple.

"I didn't know," her voice cracks as she pleads with him to look at her. "I didn't know they would come."

"It would have made no difference."

Her eyebrows come together into a frown above her bewildered eyes. "It would have... hundreds would not be dead if I-"

"Rickon would still be dead!"

She flinches at his words but he spares her no mercy as he stalks up to her with blazing eyes. "Did you know? Did you know all this time?"

Sansa casts her eyes to the floor, watching the shadows coil around their feet. "Yes."

Jon steps back as if she has wounded him. "Then that speech... of getting our brother back, our home back, it was all-"

It is the mixed sound of disgust and sadness in his voice that snaps Sansa's attention back to him. It has her grabbing hold of his arms, giving him an angry but desperate stare. "It does not mean that I did not hope," she hisses, " _hope_ that we could rescue him."

"But you knew!"

"I tried to tell you!"

Jon shakes his head vehemently causing his hair to fly around his pale face. "We could have done something differently. I could have-"

Sansa's hands leaves his arms to grasp at his shoulders. "Listen to me, Jon. There was nothing,  _nothing_ that you could have done." Tears spill down her cheeks as she thinks of her youngest brother. "Rickon was doomed. Ramsay would never have let him live,  _you_ have to accept that."

Jon slips out of her hold and falls to his knees with a loud thud, hanging his head as one single tear drips down his nose. "He was just a child."

Sansa slumps down next to him. She tilts her head back and pinches the back of her nose, attempting to blink back tears. "I'm sorry."

Jon lifts his head to look at her with bloodshot eyes. "It wasn't your fault. He was already dead..."

* * *

Things are strained between them the coming days. Jon is kind to her even helpful and concerned of her well-being, Sansa in return smiles, exchanging pleasantries and offering to help him if needed, but aside from that there is nothing. Their nightly talks feel like a distant memory and it is as if they have gone back to being what they had last been to each other inside the walls of Winterfell,  _strangers._

Sansa often feels Littlefinger's eyes on her. She feels his presence the strongest when she is with Jon, and it is his interest in their relationship or lack thereof that has her stomach twist with worry. Jon is not made for the games of the southorn court, Sansa knows that and it is clear to anyone watching. Jon is noble like Lord Eddard Stark, and honour is a death sentence.

She enlists the help of the cook, her daughters and several other members of the household as her  _'Little birds'_ , tasking them with keeping an eye on Littlefinger and those close to him. She is not deluded enough to believe that he will not be expecting it but she is also not deluded enough to believe that has has not already put his spies to work.

The only place where she feels truly alone is in her own chamber, but even though it has been stripped of all that once made it hers the memories grow to be too much and so she has taken to wander, helping wherever help is needed. She had given the command to expand the already repaired Glass Garden, deeming the expansion necessary if they were to survive the coming winter. She had also demanded that there was to be no effort put into rebuilding the Sept, this is the North and no southern gods belong here.

* * *

It is nearing dawn when Sansa makes her way to the godswood, pulling her hood up as she watches the snow fall heavily onto the ground, growing thicker with each passing day. She scarcely remembers the last winter, she had been nothing but a small child but she does remember the worry in her mother's eyes, and she remembers the darkness... The long darkness that would fall in the earliest hours of the afternoon and would last long into the next day, only to repeat itself the coming day and the day after that...

"Oh! I didn't think anyone would be here," she says, being brought out of her musings as her eyes fall on the hulking figure underneath the weirwood tree.

Jon's gaze travels from the branches of the heart tree to her face. "I can leave if you like."

Sansa shakes her head. "No," her voice is soft, almost hesitant. "No, stay."

He tilts his chin down in acknowledgement before turning his attention back to the thick branches above him. Sansa sits down beside him but she takes care to keep enough space between them. They sit in silence for quite some time, watching as more and more snow gathers on the tree branches, soon there will be enough snow to begin weigh them down and the white sky that is still visible through the branches will be entirely obscured by such a heavy layer of snow so white and thick that if you look at it from underneath the tree it will have a bluish tint to it.

"Jon..."

He turns his face to the side, silently watching her with the same intense gaze she has so often seen Ghost give.

It not that she means to guilt him or anything but the words lay ready at the tip of her tongue and as she thinks of her father, mother, brothers and sister they slip out past her lips with ease. "I miss you."

Jon's grey eyes soften just like their father's had the many times Arya had apologised for whatever misdemeanour she had been caught participating in. "I miss you too."

Sansa gives him a sad and apologetic smile before she slips down, resting her head against the ground below the tree, holding out a hand to him. His fingers twine with hers as he lays down next to her, blinking up at the branches that twist and curl above them.

"Why didn't you have the Sept rebuilt?"

The snow cools Sansa's cheek as she tilts her head to the side to look at him but Jon's eyes remain fixed above them. "The Seven does not belong here."

"Do you believe then?" Jon asks and there is an underlying urgency to his voice.

Sansa frowns up at the branches, watching as the snow falls silently between them. "I do not pray anymore."

A droplet of sap falls onto the snow between their heads, colouring it red. They both turn their slightly startled gazes to the weeping face.

"I do not believe in the new gods, but these..." one of Sansa's hands brush against the bone white trunk, "these are different." She locks her blue eyes with Jon's grey ones. "Do you feel the essence?"

Jon's eyes are like the dark pool by their side, deep and unreadable. "I feel nothing."

She smiles. "I used to feel nothing when I came here."

"Do you remember that time Bran was found asleep at the top of a sentinel?" Jon asks with a fond smile tugging at his lips.

Sansa's sweet laughter echoes through the godswood as she remembers the sheepish grin on her younger brother's face and the way her father's eyes had twinkled with mirth at the boy's antics.

The smile fades from her face. "I wonder what happened to him."

Jon's eyes darken. "There is nothing north of the Wall but misery and death... yet he was adamant to go there."

Sansa peers down at the red droplet of sap. "Maybe he knows something... something we do not."

A soft gust of wind rustles the tree branches above them.

"He was with the Reeds."

She looks back up at him thoughtfully. "Howland Reed's children?"

"Aye."

"Father said he has not left the Neck since the end of Robert's rebellion."

Jon regards her profile. "What are you thinking?"

Sansa sits up, leaving behind an imprint in the snow beside him. "Do you think he would simply allow his children to embark on a journey beyond the Wall?"

Jon's hood falls down as he sits up, revealing unruly hair and a weary face. "No."

Sansa taps her fingers against her thigh. "We are going to need the crannogmen's support."

"I did not summon him," Jon confesses, watching her carefully. "He will not leave the Neck."

Sansa nods in agreement but her mind is working quickly, drawing up plans. "He will not make it in time for the assembly with the other lords," her eyes shine with determination as she looks at him, "but if you were to demand his presence, offering valuable information about his children... then perhaps he will come."

Jon looks out at their snow covered surroundings. "Aye, you're right."

Sansa picks at the snow and moss that clings to her cloak. "With his support how many men would we have?"

Jon sighs and rubs a gloved hand over his face. "With the other northern houses swearing to serve House Stark, I would say about ten thousand, and that is with the support of the crannogmen."

Dread washes over the both of them but Sansa gives a weak smile. "Battles have been won against greater odds."

It is the first time in a long time that Sansa has seen him give a genuine smile, and it sends shivers running down her spine as she grins back him. She looks up at the sky, watching as it begins to lighten.

"We should be getting back, there is a lot to be done today."

* * *

Sansa is out by the Glass Garden, supervising the men who are working on the extension when there is the sound of fast approaching footsteps.

"Lady Stark!"

Sansa's grey cloaks swirls around her as she turns to find Arrec Altin running towards her with Willa hot on his heels. He skids to a stop in front of her, spraying now everywhere, much to the amusement of the builders.

"What is it Arrec?" she asks, watching as he bends over with his hat aslant, breathing heavily.

"A... a raven," he breaths, straightening to his full height. "A raven has arrived."

Willa – who had taken a liking to the boy after he had told her ghost stories about the castle – skips excitedly around their feet. "I've never seen one like that before!" she exclaims, bouncing up and down.

Sansa frowns down at the child, confused. "You've never seen a raven before?"

Willa's blue eyes grow even wider with excitement but just as she is about to open her mouth Arrec shoves her out of the way, giving her an annoyed glare.

"It was no ordinary raven, my lady," he says, glancing up at the snow that has begun to fall. "It was a white raven."

The builders fall silent.

"Where...  _where_ is it?" Sansa asks just as an indescribable feeling begins to grow inside of her chest. "Show it to me."

Arrec leads her to the Rockery that the Boltons had rebuilt and put to use. Sansa follows behind him, watching the ravens flap their wings as they enter, cawing loudly at them from their perches.

"It's in the cage at the end," Arrec says pointing further into the tower.

They hear it before they see it. Its loud and angry screeching echoes through the tower, followed by the angry responses from the black ravens.

"Oh," Sansa breaths, unable to stop herself as her eyes land on the white bird inside of an alcove with bars.

The white raven flaps its wing angrily at a black raven as it flies through the room, snapping its beak through the bars.

"They don't like each other," Willa mumbles, watching the birds in amazement.

"No," Sansa agrees, shooing away the black raven before unhooking the lock of the slightly larger one's cage. She reaches in with both of her hands to capture it before taking it out. It turns its head around, watching her with dark intelligent eyes. "It is to be sent back immediately," she says, moving towards the large window.

"Why?" Willa asks, following behind her.

Arrec grabs hold of her shoulder, allowing Sansa to approach the window alone. "Because they will continue to fight otherwise," he says, gesturing at the other unsettled birds.

Sansa skims one finger along the bird's white feathers, marveling at their softness, before she flings it out of the window, watching as it ascends towards the sky at a rapid speed. "I must tell Jon."

* * *

"Ser Davos!"

The older man spins around at the sound of her voice, regarding her with simmering eyes. "My lady."

The way he wrings his hands does not go unnoticed by Sansa. "Is something the matter?"

His body trembles with something she has seen on many men, a barely controlled rage. "Yes," he grinds out through clenched teeth.

Sansa takes a step closer. "What has happened?"

Davos looks down at his hand and her concerned gaze follows his landing on the burnt figurine of a stag that he clutches at tightly.

"The Princess," he chokes, "Princess Shireen... she... s-she's dead!"

"Stannis's daughter?"

Davos breaks before her eyes. He hangs his head and big fat tears roll down his cheeks, dripping onto the stone floor as she watches his body shake with uncontrollable sobs.

Sansa does not think of her next actions as she walks up to him, gently stroking a hand up and down his back all while whispering words of comfort.

"I loved her," he cries, hugging the ruined stag to his chest. "I loved her as if she were my own!"

"I am so sorry."

He whips his head around and the sorrow is momentarily forgotten, replaced by anger. "It is all  _her_ fault," he hisses, spit flying from his mouth. "She burned her! Burned her alive!"

Sansa's stomach turns as she imagines the poor child being led onto a pyre. "Who did?"

Davos chuckles mirthlessly. "The witch," he says loathingly before his lips curl into a snarl. "The Red Woman."

Sansa's eyes are hard as she asks coolly, "Where is she now?"

Davos glances down at the stag. "Jon banished her."

She nods thoughtfully. "I promise you, Ser Davos, that if she ever were to return she will be met with the same fate."

His blue eyes glisten with tears as he looks up at her astonished.

She hooks an arm through his. "Now come."

Sansa leads him to the kitchen which is full of life as the cooks set about preparing the meal for the coming day when the lords of the other northern houses are set to arrive.

"Milday!" the kitchen staff chorus as she enters.

Sansa smiles in reply, giving them all a nod before pushing the broken man into an empty chair by a table scattered with meat.

"Would you be so kind as to give Ser Davos some warm soup?" she asks, turning to a sturdy woman with round cheeks and greying brown hair, who happens to be the head of the kitchen staff.

"Certainly milday!"

"Thank you, Gwyn."

Sansa leaves Davos with a warm bowl of venison stew steaming in front of him, and with the cook fussing around him, asking if there is anything else she can get him while the remaining staff dashes around, preparing the meals.

* * *

She finds Jon atop one of the walls, watching the silhouette of the Red Woman growing smaller in the distance. One quick glance at his face tells her how conflicted he is about his decision. She had never cared for the Red Woman, having arrived at Castle Black after Jon's resurrection she had never truly comprehended what the Red Woman had done for him, and even though Sansa is grateful to her for bringing Jon back she has always found the woman unnerving. She would have no qualms about burning her if she was to return. Those who could harm innocent children had no place in the North.

It is Jon's voice that brings her out of her musings.

"I'm having the Lord's chamber prepared for you."

She frowns, not quite grasping the meaning of his words. "Mother and Father's room?"

She watches as he keeps his eyes on the horizon, sees the burdened look in his them and she thinks back to the small empty room she had found below her family's. "You should take it."

Jon smiles, amused by her words but his eyes are soft and endearing. "I'm not a Stark."

It is the underlying sadness and longing in his voice that has Sansa turning to look at him with earnest eyes. "You are to me."

Her words does not seem to bring him any comfort. "You're the Lady of Winterfell, you deserve it. We are standing here because of you."

She feels no joy at the recognition, she only feels a coldness building inside her chest.

"The battle was lost until the Knights of the Vale rode in. They came because of you."

Sansa swallows, waiting for what is to come.

"You told me Lord Baelish sold you to the Boltons," Jon says, still refusing to look at her.

She follows his gaze, looking out over the white landscape. "He did."

Jon shifts his eyes to her. "Do you trust him?" he asks unable to hide the worry in them as he finally looks at her.

"Only a fool would trust Littlefinger."

Sansa had been a fool until the very moment Littlefinger had led her through the very gates they are now standing upon, as pawn in his own game.

Her eyes shine with regret as she turns towards Jon. "I should have told you about him. About the Knights of the Vale." He does not reply and she feel her chest tightening. "I'm sorry."

Jon looks out over the snow covered hills, lost in thought, and Sansa considers leaving him to them but before she can take her leave he steps up to her.

"We need to trust each other," his voice is resolute but his eyes are pleading. "We can't fight a war among ourselves. We have so many enemies now."

His words fill Sansa with shame. She wishes that she had never kept it from him, scolding herself silently for causing this pain that is now between them. If only she had trusted Jon from the beginning, not giving in to the fear of what he would have said or done, then they would not be at this crossroad.

But then Jon does something... he takes a step closer, choosing one path as he leans down slightly, cradling her head in his hands before pressing a kiss to her forehead.

He does not say anything as she lifts her eyes to look at him, giving her a small smile that Sansa finds more wistful than anything else, before turning to leave.

"Jon," she calls, remembering why she had sought him out to begin with.

He turns back around, waiting silently.

"A raven came from the Citadel. A white raven," she sucks in a deep breath, feeling the crisp air burn its way down to her lungs. "Winter is here."

Jon's expression changes slowly as the meaning of her words begin to sink in and then a small chuckles escapes him as a smile breaks out across his face. He looks up at the snow falling from the sky. "Well Father always promised, didn't he?" he says looking at her and she cannot help but to smile as well.

* * *

Sansa had been expecting Littlefinger to approach her sooner so it comes as no surprise when he seeks her out in the godswood.

"What do you want?"  
Littlefinger's eyes darken and his voice is low as he stares up at her. "I thought you knew what I wanted."

Sansa had thought so as well, but now with him standing before her looking at her as if she was someone else, someone long dead, she does not know what to think. "I was wrong."

"No you weren't."

Littlefinger's confession brings her no comfort and as he nears her, whispering of his desires with his breath fanning across her face, smelling of sweet wine she has to resist the instinct to shrink back.

"A picture of me on the Iron Throne.. with  _you_  by my side."

His lips part and his eyes flicker up to hers before he begins to lean in but Sansa's hand comes up between them, pressing firmly against his chest.

"That is a pretty picture." She allows her hand to fall away, stepping around him as she begins to walk away slowly, while her hands shake uncontrollably underneath her cloak.

"News of this battle will spread quickly through the seven kingdoms."

Sansa comes to halt but she does not turn back around as she allows his words to sink in, hearing and fearing what is left unsaid.

"I have declared for House Stark for all to hear."

"You have declared for other houses before, Lord Baelish. It has never stopped you from serving yourself."

"The past is gone for good. We can sit here... mourning its departure or... we could prepare for the future. You,  _my love_ , are the future of House Stark."

Sansa thinks of Bran somewhere beyond the Wall, of Arya alive somewhere and then she thinks of Jon.

"Who should the North rally behind?" Littlefinger calls with a slight taunt. "The trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, born here at Winterfell, or a motherless bastard born in the south?"

A small breath escapes her in a cloud of smoke before she walks away, leaving him in a place where he does not belong.

* * *

Jon finds Sansa beneath the shadow of the First Keep, standing among the graves in the dark lichyard with nothing but the flame from a single torch to cast light upon her face and the glimmering snow below her feet.

"They buried Lady here," she tells him as he comes to stand next to her.

Jon looks down at the ground below their feet where hundreds of loyal Stark servants have been laid to rest. "I didn't know..."

Sansa steps deeper into the lichyard, trailing one gloved hand along a headstone so worn that the words inscribed on it are no longer readable. "Bran wrote me."

Both of their heads snap up at the sound of soft footfalls falling against the snow to find a pair of glowing eyes staring back at them through the darkness.

"Ghost," Sansa says in a greeting as she watches the wolf stalk between the lichen covered graves, blending in with the shadows.

"Do you know where she is?" Jon asks.

Sansa turns around to look at him, only to find him staring at her with soft and gentle eyes. "No."

Jon's boots crunch softly against the snow as he moves around the graves, allowing his eyes to wander aimlessly until the light of his torch falls onto a cracked headstone with a wolf's head engraved on it. "This is where I would have laid had I not taken the Black."

Sansa's eyes glimmer in the light of the flame, reflecting the words they are both looking down upon.

_Torrhen Snow._

"No."

"Sansa-"

She steps in front of the grave, obscuring it from his view. "Neither you nor Lady belong here." Her eyes are sad as she looks at the graves around them but when she looks back up at him there is nothing but determination in them. "Do you have it?"

"Do I have what?"

Sansa's hair shimmers in different shades of red and gold as it catches the light of the torch. "Shaggydog's head."

Jon flicks his eyes past her shoulder where he catches the red gaze of Ghost as he peers out from behind a headstone. "Yes."

"Good," Sansa says, stepping away from the grave, heading towards the unlit entrance of the Crypts. "We are going to bury it with Rickon."

She holds the torch high in the air, allowing the flame to light the unlit torches that are placed on either side of the Crypts entrance. "Have you been down there?"

Jon's feet teeter on the edge of an invisible threshold. "No," he says gruffly as a chill begins to spread its way through his body. "Not since before.."

Sansa closes her eyes, thinking of the words that has been left unsaid,  _not since before everything turned to ash and bones..._

"I have," she confesses softly, turning to look at him, "to see Aunt Lyanna."

She gives a forceful shove with her shoulder, pushing against the slanted ironwood door which opens inwards, creaking loudly on its hinges. Her footsteps echo loudly down the spiraling staircase as she steps inside, coming to a halt on the landing where she turns to look at Jon. "Are you coming?"

Jon peers past her at the stone steps that spiral down into darkness. The shadows seem to dance in the flickering firelight, taking on the ghostly shapes of kings long gone with wolves lurking at their feet, beckoning him to descend with them.

"No."

Sansa looks from him and back to the darkness that awaits them before turning back around to him. "Perhaps some other time."

The ghosts flicker before melting back into the shadows.

The fear in Jon's eyes does not go unnoticed by Sansa as she brings the door to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the misspellings that will be in this, I'm still writing on the computer from the stoneage and I'm just too exhausted to look through it. I will fix them when I get my own computer back.
> 
> So what did you think?
> 
> Did you like the lichyard part? That is about the only thing I liked about this chapter, I am really not pleased with how this turned out, except for that part.
> 
> How did you feel about the Litterfinger interaction? I know it's basically just like the show, but that is because I want things to develop at a good pace.
> 
> How are you guys feeling about this story so far? I know I've lost readers so I'm slightly worried that I'm only boring you.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of thrones! Some quotes are taken directly from season six episode ten, The Winds of Winter, I do not take any credit for them.
> 
> First of all thank you so much to everyone who reviewed last time! I honestly felt pretty shit about this story and your kind words of support really warmed my heart, so thank you!
> 
> I'm once again sorry for the delay but I've been travelling.

Sansa finds it difficult to do Rickon justice. He had been nothing but a small child the last time she had seen him and that is how she will forever remember him. A sweet summer child with so much life inside of him, but the the body that had been carried in through the gates had not belonged to a child, it had belonged to a young man. It would have been an injustice to have him portrayed as a boy when he had not been one, but there is no one alive to tell her what he had looked like, Jon had barely caught glimpses of him as he had ridden towards him.

She does her best, describing his hair, the shape of his eyes, mouth and nose to the stonemason all while having to remind herself that he had been tall and broad shouldered when he died. The mason takes pity on her, he fashions the features she has described onto the stone but he also applies traits of Robb onto his face, making him look older.

The unjust fate of her youngest brother weighs heavily on Sansa's mind and the cruel truth that he will never be truly remembered for who he had grown to become is too much for her to think about which is why she leaves the rest to the stonemason, not wanting to have any further part in what his effigy will look like.

The white light outside the Crypts is momentarily blinding and Sansa has to raise one hand to shield her eyes until they have grown accustomed to the brightness. The way the snow reaches up to her ankles does not go unnoticed by her as she makes her way through the courtyard, passing men training for battle, and servants rushing about, she feels a deep worry for what is to happen to them all.

Sansa follows the path in the snow that leads to the Great Hall where she knows Jon will be in deep discussion with Davos and Tormund, but when she enters she finds him alone, slumped over the High Table, seated where her father had once sat.

"Are you scared?"

He looks up startled until his eyes settle on her. "Aye."

Sansa stops in front of the table looking up at him just as he had done so many times before with their family. "Good."

The crease between his brows deepens as he frowns, looking down at the worn table. "Good?"

She does not make an attempt to join him instead she seats herself on a bench to her left. "Yes, it is a dangerous game we're playing. Only a fool would not be afraid."

Jon's eyes snaps to hers, intense and searching. "Are you playing?"

"We all are."

"But for what?" he insists.

Sansa's loose hair falls over her shoulders, burning against the grey and white colours of her dress – Stark colours – as she looks up at him. "The North."

Jon shakes his head and his eyes darken with heavy thoughts. "This is about more than the North."

She smiles. "For them but not for us."

Jon's feet shuffle against the floor as he stands, pushing away from the table before walking around it. "Is it all for the North then?" He asks with a slight tremble to his voice as he takes a seat next to her.

"And for us," Sansa promises, turning to face him and in doing so quelling his fears. "Robb started this but we will end it."

Jon's eyes are dark and sad as he nods in agreement, but underneath it is an understanding for it all.

Sansa's fingers brushes against the hand he has placed on top of the table. "We have to tell them," she whispers.

Jon turns his hand so that his palm faces the high wooden beams of the ceiling. "Aye."

Sansa's fingers are warm against his palm as they carefully skim along it. "They might not believe us..."

His fingers twine with hers as he closes his hand. "They deserve the truth."

Sansa's eyes shine brightly as she nods in agreement. "Father always said to be truthful."

Jon's hand slips out of hers as he stands abruptly.

"Are you alright?" she wonders, getting onto her feet.

He looks to the side of her, not quite meeting her eyes, and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "I'm fine," he replies gruffly, looking towards the large doors at the other side of the hall. "We should get ready, the other lords will be arriving soon."

Sansa looks at the doors, listening as the wind howls outside them. "I suppose you are right..."

Jon inclines his head but his eyes are still somewhere beyond her shoulder as he straightens before turning around with his grey cloak sweeping behind him.

"Jon!"

With a few large strides Sansa is by his side, stepping around him so that he is forced to look at her. "You," she says in a voice that leaves no room for argument, "deserve to sit there," she nods at the High Table.

Jon keeps quiet, he has taken to doing that whenever the issue of what he has the right to comes up between them, it is easier than arguing about it.

Sansa shakes her head in frustration at him. "It is  _me_ and  _you_ ," she whispers, leaning in closer to him, suddenly aware that anyone could be listening.

It is her words that finally has Jon looking at her with caring eyes. "I'm only following you," he murmurs sincerely for only her ears to hear. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."

One of Sansa's hands clutch at his arm as she looks into his eyes. "Nor I if it weren't for you."

The way Jon's lips tug at the corner of his mouth does not go unnoticed by her. "You deserve it," she insists one last time before leaving.

* * *

Sansa's hood is pulled down to her eyes and a shawl is wrapped tightly around her face to protect it from the harsh wind that whips the snow through the air as she makes her way down a path that will lead her to the Rookery.

"My lady, I did not recognise you!" Arrec exclaims as as she enters what used to be Maester Luwin's living quarters.

"Understandably so," Sansa replies, removing the shawl from her face.

The boy gives her an impish grin, bowing his head. "Yes, my lady."

She smiles in return and looks around the room. "You won't be stuck here for long," she promises, regarding the simple bed and the many books strewn out across the large desk. "We have sent for a new Maester."

Arrec shrugs and steps up to the desk, fiddling with the page of an open book. "I do not mind."

Sansa walks over to the window that looks out over the building to the kitchen. "But you would rather be doing something else?"  
Arrec remains quiet but she hears him close the book. "I'm going to speak with Jon about you joining the guard."

There is a sharp intake of breath and she turns to find Arrec staring at her wide-eyed in disbelief. "We need men like you, Arrec," she says kindly.

His words rush past his lips in a jumbled mess as he bows his head. "Thank, thank you, my lady!"

Sansa's blue eyes shine with fondness as she smiles at him. "There is no need to thank me." She thinks back to all the times she had heard her father tell Robb and Jon about how important it was to know the men that followed you, how you had to listen to them and show them your appreciation, that was something rare in the southorn court.

A blush creeps up Arrec's neck, settling onto his cheeks but he puffs out his chest proudly. "Thank you." Then he seems to come to himself as he catches her glancing up towards the ceiling that houses the Rockery above it. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Sansa lowers her eyes, biting down on the inside of her cheek worriedly. "Has there been any word from the Lady Brienne or her squire Podrick Payne?

Arrec shakes his head. "No word I'm afraid."

Her hands clench underneath her grey cloak. "Thank you, Arrec."

She takes her leave but the boy's voice stops her. "Perhaps," he calls hopefully, "perhaps they have been delayed by the weather."

Sansa peers out the window, watching the snow beat against it.  _It had never been due to something so simple before._

"Perhaps..."

She is just about to open the door when it flies wide open -giving her just enough time to jump out of the way – letting in a cold gust of air that rustles the pages of the open books and scrolls.

"Willa!" Arrec exclaims angrily as he brushes past Sansa, shoving aside the wide eyed child before slamming the door shut. "The Others take you!"

"Not if I throw you to them first!" Willa snaps back hotly, narrowing her eyes at the gaping boy.

"I didn't... it's a saying for-"

"What is it Willa?" Sansa asks, trying her best to keep the laughter out of her voice.

Willa gives Arrec one last withering glare before turning to Sansa. "They're arriving! All those Kneelers!"

* * *

Jon has done it before, he has stood in front of men as their commander. Sansa has not, it has never been expected of her, and yet out of the two of them as they take their seats in front of all the lords that has gathered to meet them, she is the calm one.

 _She belongs here,_  Jon thinks. He does not. He had belonged at the Wall where the title you had had before meant nothing. He had been able to command the men there because they had once been his equals, but these men gathered in front of him, they have always been above him. He thinks of the crypts, of the old kings of Winterfell with their wolves lurking by their feet, whispering in their coarse voices that has gone unused for hundreds of years, whispering that he does not belong.

Sansa leans in closer to him and Jon can smell the snow on her skin. " _You_ deserve this," she whispers.

He looks at her with pleading eyes but her blue ones are hard, offering no escape. " _I_ am telling you that you deserve this," she flicks her gaze briefly to somewhere on his right, "and no one else can say any differently."

It all starts out civilly enough with the lords that had refused their call abashedly acknowledging them as the rightful rulers of Winterfell, swearing allegiance to House Stark. It is when the last northern lord has sworn his allegiance that Sansa turns her head to the side, raising one eyebrow as she calls for Lord Baelish.

He steps forward, all humble and soft spoken as he bows to her. "My lady."

"I offer you my gratitude for the Vale's assistance in defeating the Boltons," she says in a smooth voice that rings throughout the hall.

Littlefinger bows his head once more and a smile plays at the corner of his lips. "I'd do anything for you, my lady. I owe it to your mother and my beloved late wife."

Sansa nods in approval. "Speaking of family," she says, dismissing Littlefinger, turing towards Yohn Royce who is seated at the head of one of the long tables to her left. "Lord Royce."

The man in question stands, inclining his head. "My lady."

Jon watches as Sansa smiles a sweet smile, a smile he has not seen her give anyone before.

"My Father spoke highly of you," she tells the man, watching as his bushy eyebrows shoot up on his wrinkly forehead and how his grey eyes shine with pride. "He regarded you a close ally and friend, and I know that my brother King Robb thought just as highly of you. He always admired the tales told about you, and he considered you a very close friend of our family."

"Thank you, Lady Stark," Lord Royce begins, trailing one hand over the ancient armour he wears, "for such kind words."

"Words you deserve, my lord, for if it weren't for House Royce's help we might not be sitting here today." Sansa does not say another word, having said what she must, instead she turns to Jon, allowing him to take it from there.

"All of you gathered here today are to be thanked," he begins in a gruff voice that grows considerably clearer with each passing word. "House Mormont," he says nodding at the young Lyanna Mormont, "House Mazin, House Hornwodd, the Knights of the Vale and the Free Folk will forever have our gratitude for their support."

Lord Royce who has yet to take his seat looks up at Jon, clearing his throat loudly, demanding everyone's attention.

"My lord," Jon says, holding out a hand for him to speak.

"Forgive me my... lord, but there is something I must get off of my chest," he says looking from Jon to Sansa.

Jon nods. "Go on."

The old man sighs, peering over his shoulder at the group of Wildlings seated behind him. "It grieves me that I could not support your brother Kind Robb... I tried to make Lady Arryn see reason but she would not. However I now offer you my full support."

"Thank you, Lord Royce."

He holds up one hand, shaking it passionately in the air. "But you can't expect the Knights of the Vale to side with Wildling invaders!"

"We didn't invade," Tormund interjects calmly from behind the lord. "We were invited."

Lord Royce scarcely spares the Wildling a glance as he says in a voice full of distatse, "Not by me."

The room erupts with noise as the men gathered there begin to take sides, and Jon knows that if he does not take control of the situation it will spiral out of control, damaging the fragile peace they have managed to create beyond repair.

The chair scrapes loudly against the floor, gaining everyone's attention as Jon gets onto his feet, bracing his hands on the the table. "The Free Folk, the northerners and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together and we  _won_."

He can hear his father now, whispering in his ear as he had done so many years ago to him and Robb at that very table when Lady Stark had been a bed with child. "My Father used to say that we find our true friends on the battlefield."

Cley Cerwyn flies out of his seat, looking upon all the men gathered there. "The Boltons are defeated. The war is over! Winter has come."

It is brief and no one but those who watches them closely will see both Jon and Sansa close their eyes as the young ignorant lord rambles on about how harsh the winter will be and what they ought to do.  _He has no clue, the poor fool._

"-we should ride home and wait out the coming storms."

Jon's deep voice cuts through the room. "The war is not over," they all fall silent, some watching him with gaping mouths, others with tired but expecting eyes, "and I promise you my friend, the true enemy won't wait out the storm." He looks at them all with earnest eyes. "He  _brings_  the storm."

This time the murmuring is even louder than before, and both Jon and Sansa can hear the disbelief in their voices. They hear the cries of denial coming from some, the scornful scoffs but also the worry and fear.

Jon does not say anything else, afraid that he will loose them if he does. The next words cannot come form him, they need to come from someone that will make them believe in what he has said.

He had not expected Lyanna Mormont to come to his aid, but as the child stands wise beyond her years, he sinks back into his seat, watching as she demands the attention of all those gathered there.

Her words ring true and cut deep, shaming them but also serving as a reminder to where their loyalties lie. She speaks of what is best for the North, how they must honour those who died for it and then she does something that would never have been expected.

She looks at Sansa, whose eyes shine with silent admiration for the girl, and then she turns, turns towards Jon. "I don't care if he is a bastard, Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He is  _my_ King from this day until his last day," she declares passionately before taking her seat, almost shyly now as she sends Jon a small tight-lipped smile.

Jon remains silent as Lord Manderly takes Lyanna's place, proclaiming him king. He listens to the faint support the lord gets from the Free Folk and a handful of northern lords.

A warm weight presses against his thigh and Jon looks down to find Ghost's red eyes staring up at him.  _The direwolf is a sigil of your House._

Lord Glover is the next one to stand, and Jon expects him to express his distaste, to put an end to all this foolishness but he does not instead he asks to Jon to grant him forgiveness for a crime that does not exist.

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord."

Jon himself does not realise the impact of his words but Sansa does. She sees the effect Jon's humble words has on Robett Glover, she sees it in the way he catches himself in surprise and she sees it in how his eyes suddenly sparkle with an admiration that had not been there just moments before.

The others hear it in his voice that echoes loudly against the stone walls as he looks at them. "House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years, and I will stand behind Jon Snow," he draws his sword for all to see, bending the knee, "the King in the North!"

Someone echoes his cry and then there is the sound of several swords being drawn. "The King in the North!"

Jon stands to their words, shouldering the weight of his brother but not before turning to Sansa, silently asking. She answers his question with a heartening smile and he can hear her words from earlier in his mind.

Sansa's smile remains as she looks out at the sea of men gathered there, supporting them, supporting Jon _,_ but it slowly fades once her eyes meets Littlefinger's intense stare, watching her silently from the shadows.

* * *

That night they feast much to Jon's dislike.

"We have more pressing matters to concern ourselves with than holding a feast," he insists, looking at Sansa for help but she simply shakes her head at him.

"It is expected of us."

Jon sighs and runs a hand through his loose waves. "It is wrong."

Sensing that she will not win this fight Sansa looks at Davos, silently asking him to reason with the newly crowned king.

The Onion Knight steps into the candle light, bowing his head to his king. "Lady Stark is right, Your Grace-"

"Jon."

Davos shakes his head but smiles nevertheless. "You are my king now and I will address you as such."

"There's no need for that," Jon grumbles as he gathers his hair to the back of his neck, tying it together with a thin string of leather.

"Good," Tormund rumbles from his place by the window, "'cause I won't be calling you that."

Jon's lips quirk at the corners. "I'd hope not," he says turning towards his friend.

The redhaired man chuckles before raising a cup of ale – that had been brought in earlier to the small room, located to the side of the High Table in the Great Hall – to his lips. "But I won't mind a good feast."

Jon does not respond instead he turns away with a scoff of disapproval. Sansa gets up from the chair she had been lounging on by the fire, shooting Tormund an annoyed glare to which he shrugs indifferently.

"May I have a moment alone with Jon?" she asks.

"Certainly, my lady," Davos replies before making his way to the door.

Tormund pushes away from the wall he had been leaning against with one foot, unfolding his arms. "I heard there will be a boar," he tells them happily as he follows Davos out of the room.

Jon glares after his friend until the door swings shut behind him with a soft thud. He turns towards Sansa with trembling hands.

"This... this is madness."

She steps up to the table, fingering at a parchment laid out on it. "I do not think the other lords would take kindly to being denied a feast after their travels."

Jon walks over to the hearth, sighing deeply. "That is not what I meant."

Sansa looks up from the parchment. "I know," she tells him softly.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. "It should be you not me."

Her eyes narrow. "Why?" she asks approaching him and her voice grows angrier with each word. "Because I'm a Stark? We have been through this Jon, you-"

" _No_ ," he insists, spinning around to look at her, "no, it's not about that."

"Then what is it about?"

He takes a step closer, closing the the space that had been separating them. "It's about  _you_ deserving it," he whispers.

She inhales deeply, closing her eyes briefly. "They won't follow me."

"Why not?"

Sansa's eyes are full of affection as she looks up at him. "Truthfully? Because I am a girl and because of... because of my past."

Jon cups her cheek with his burned hand. "We would not be here if it weren't for you," he says sincerely. "I was going to leave, go somewhere far away. You made me stay. You deserve to be Queen in the North."

It is as if the dark cloud that has been hovering over Sansa since Jon's coronation has evaporated. She had not been envious of him being crowned king but the lack of acknowledgement towards the role she had played in it all by the other lords had stung. However petty it might sound she had been craving their approval and it isn't until that very moment that Sansa realises how important it had been for her to have Jon giving it.

"Thank you," she says, unconsciously leaning into his touch, "but none of this would have been possible without you."

He chuckles softly but his eyes are sad. "You deserve it."

"It is not a question about what I deserve," she tells him, raising one hand, cupping it over the one he holds to her cheek. "It is about what the other northerners want, Jon, and they chose you not me."

He exhales deeply and closes his eyes. "What about what I want?"

"You want the North to be free, to be safe, don't you?"

There is no hesitation in his reply, "Yes."

"Well then," she says giving him a small smile, "you need to lead it as its king."

The silence between them is broken by the abrupt sound of several voices coming from outside the door, followed by raucous laughter that has Sansa stepping away from Jon, staring at the door blankly. "We should go out there."

Jon's grip is gentle as he grasps one of her arms, spinning her around to face him. "Will you be all right?"

She furrows her brows at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He peers over at the door. "It is a feast..." he says searching her face, waiting for her to understand but when she does not he continues on. "There might be dancing..."

Her eyed widen in comprehension. "Oh," she whispers, "oh..."

"Sansa, you do not have to do this."

She feels as if someone has dumped a bucket of ice cold water over her head. "It's fine," she insists, trying to persuade herself. "I will be fine."

Jon open his mouth about to say something else but she cannot listen to it, she cannot think about it which is why she steps away from him, placing on hand on the door knob.

"Are you ready for this, Your Grace?"

* * *

The night goes better than expected. It consists of renewing old alliances and creating new ones. Many men and women come up to the High Table, bowing to them before sharing their memories, stories and worries. Jon handles it all with grace, a grace of someone who has done it all before. He might not see it himself but Sansa does and she knows then that his time at Castle Black has helped shape him for this task.

As she watches him silently throughout the night she sees him conduct lessons their father had taught them, which is how she knows that he will be a just king, but it is also what worries her. She is afraid for him, afraid that his honour will doom him to share the same fate as their father.

A glimmering shade of purple catches the corner of her eye and when she turns her head towards it she finds Littlefinger weaving his way through the crowd.  _The North had once been a safe place_ , she thinks,  _an honest place._ If they were to have any chance of survival they would need to rid themselves of all the snakes.

"Your Grace," Littlefinger's voice breaks through Sansa's reverie. "Lady Stark."

"Lord Baelish," Jon greets. "What can we do for you?"

Littlefinger smiles at Jon before looking over at Sansa. "I was hoping Lady Stark would be generous enough to grant me one dance."

Jon's hand tighten around the knife he holds, just as the air momentarily flees Sansa's lungs. She is aware of Littlefinger watching them closely as she raises the goblet of wine in front of her to her lips. She feels rather than sees the rage coming off of Jon and she knows that if she does not act soon he will do something rash that will put Littlefinger a step ahead of them.

"I'm afraid my dancing is rather rusty my lord," she tells him calmly, setting her goblet back down with care.

"And yet you will the most beautiful dancer here," he flatters while his eyes cuts like daggers.

Sansa laughs loudly for all those near to hear. "Well then, my lord, be prepared to be sorely disappointed."

Littlefinger flashes his teeth as he smiles. "We shall see."

There is nothing else left to be said and so Sansa gets onto her feet, feeling Jon's eyes following her, accompanied by the stares of Ser Davos and Tormund Giantsbane. Littlefinger pretends like nothing is amiss, holding out his hand to her as comes around the table. Sansa does not allow herself to hesitate, giving him her arm, biting down hard on her tongue.

"Come now, sweetling," he whispers for only her to hear as he leads her towards the space where the tables have been cleared away to make room for the dancing couples.

Sansa is forced to touch many of the men on the floor as they bow and curtsey, moving around each other, exchanging partners before coming back to their original one. It is something she takes great discomfort in in and when she comes back to Littlefinger her cheeks are flushed but not from the excitement that would have been there on her younger self. Sweat trickles its way down her back while her hands against her will have grown clammy.

"Are you not well, my dear?" Littlefinger asks once she is back in his hold.

Sansa forces herself to smile at him. "Is there a reason I should not be?"

He leans in closer to her. "You are short of breath."

She steps around him in a circle. "I warned you that my dancing is not what it once used to be."

His chuckles has her tensing unwillingly as another darker, much more cruel laughter enters her mind. "I'm glad to see you have not lost your wit..." his eyes are cruel, Sansa thinks as he looks at her with dark pleasure.

She forces herself to smile at him, forces herself to keep her hands relaxed in his as he moves them around.

"Sansa..." her name leaves his lips in one soft breath, filled with desire, "you must know that I never wished for any of this to happen to you."

"It is in the past now."

Littlefinger nods, pulling her closer to him. "And we would all do best by not dwelling on it," he agrees. "We need to be looking to the future."

Sansa raises one elegant brow at him. "Is that not what we are doing, Lord Baelish?"

He peers past her shoulder at the High Table. "For him, yes, but his future is not yours."

She casts one glance over her shoulder at Jon, who is watching them intently while Davos leans in closer to him whispering something that has Jon turning to look at him. "We are kin," she says turning her attention back to Littlefinger. "We share the same future."

Littlefinger chuckles and shakes his head at her. "Oh my sweet, you are smarter than that."

It takes all the strength Sansa has not to tear out of his grip, fleeing from him in disgust. "Am I?"

He leans in even closer than he had before, too close. She can feel his breath on her face as he speaks. "You and I both know that it should be you up there."

The music stops playing.

Sansa does not lower her gaze from his as she curtsies to him. "Thank you for this dance, Lord Baelish."

Littlefinger smiles a wretched smile. "The pleasure was all mine."

Once back in her seat Sansa has to fight to keep her breathing under control as she hides her shaking hands in her lap. She feels Jon move to her right, and knowing that they are still being watched she turns away from him finding herself caught in Tormund's intense stare.

"Is... is the feast living up to your expectations?" she asks with a slight quiver.

He lifts a large piece of meat to his mouth, tearing into it, allowing the juices to run down his chin. "Aye."

Sansa tries to smile around the pain that clutches at her heart, constricting her lungs. "I am glad."

Tormund drops the meat back onto his plate before grabbing his goblet, tilting his head back as he takes a large swig of the ale. "That cunt giving you trouble?" he asks, nodding at Littlefinger who has retaken his seat further down the hall.

Sansa's breaths are short and shallow as she attempts to get air past the hand clutching at her chest. "It's fine," she manages to choke out but her eyes widen with terror as her next breath forms into a painful lump in her throat, preventing any air to pass.

Something in Tormund's blue eyes changes as he takes in her obvious state of distress. "Willa has been asking for you."

The knuckles on Sansa's hands grow white as she clutches tightly at the armrest of her chair. "What?"

Tormund stands, drawing the attention of everyone else seated at the table. "I'm taking Sansa to see Willa," he tells them as if it is nothing out of the ordinary.

Sansa can feel Jon's eyes on her as she somehow manages to follow Tormund out of the hall but she does not dare to turn around for fear that he will see the terror in her eyes.

Once outside she tries to draw in deep breaths, attempting to fill her lungs with the fresh air but it won't move past the lump that seems to be growing bigger with each passing breath, that is when she begins to panic. She claws frantically at her chest tearing at thhe martial of her dress, she looks up at Tormund, silently pleading with him to do something.

"Deep breaths," Tormund demands, leading her around the corner of the Great Hall and casting them into darkness.

All she can manage is a pitiful whimper as dark spots begin to dance before her eyes and a popping noise fills her ears.

From somewhere above her Tormund swears quietly. "Are you listening to me girl? Take deep breaths."

Sansa presses her back against the cool stone wall, slipping down it until she is seated on the ground. It is the coldness of the snow against her knees that makes her feel something other than the burning hand clutching at her chest. She rests her face against her knees and draws in one shuddering breath, the one that follows makes its way down her throat easier.

"That's it," Tormund whispers.

Sansa closes her eyes, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of cold air, desperate to fill her lungs with it, afraid that if she stops even for one moment the fear will come back.

* * *

Sansa wakes several hours later to a knock on her door that has her opening her bleary eyes to stare at it. Her limbs are heavy with exhaustion and she feels completely drained, so much so that she has to struggle to keep her lids open.

She has no intention of allowing whoever it is on the other side in but when she hears the tentative call of her name, she finds herself out of bed, moving barefoot across the heated stone floor.

Her hands tremble as she undoes the latch, stepping aside to allow Jon to come inside.

He looks at her worriedly, taking in the paleness of her skin and the dark circles underneath her eyes. "Are you all right?"

She bites her lip, looking up at him with sad eyes. "No," she whispers with a hitching breath.

Jon does not attempt to to move closer to her. "What can I do?"

Sansa spins around. "Nothing," she tells him, staring down at her trembling hands.

Jon follows her inside, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. "Sansa," he begins gently, carefully, "talk to me."

Her lower lip trembles uncontrollably and she wipes her hands against her sleeping gown. "I-I.. I don't... I can't get clean."

"What do you mean?"

She scrubs her hands against the fabric of her gown. "It.. it is soiled," she mumbles, growing more insistent with the rubbing causing her palms to become red with irritation.

"Sansa," Jon says calmly from behind her, "you need to explain it to me."

A sob grows in her throat and she rubs her hands furiously against each other. "I can't get it off!" She whirls around, staring at him distraught. "Get it off! Get it off!  _GET IT OFF!_ "

"Shh," Jon tries to sooth as he approaches her slowly with his hands raised, "it's all right," he promises. "We will fix it."

Sansa's sobs grows louder and she rubs her hands against her night gown while snot mixes with the tears streaming down her burning cheeks. "I want it gone!"

Slowly as if he is dealing with a wild animal Jon lowers his hands, gently grasping hers with them, all while watching her carefully with sorrowful eyes, waiting for her reaction. "It is going to be all right."

Sansa allows herself to be led over to the wash basin where Jon momentarily lets go of her to pour water into it. Once he has filled it he takes her hands in his and dips them into the warm water where he slowly begins to scrub at them, twisting and turning them, allowing the water to flow through her fingers as he strokes his thumbs along her palms all while she breaths heavily, watching the water ripple above their hands.

"I'm sorry."

His stills. "You have nothing to apologise for."

She stares down at her red hands and his pale ones, struggling to regain her bearings.

"Sansa," he says, stroking his scarred thumb along one of the lines inside her palm, "it happens to the best of us."

She closes her eyes in shame. "I should be stronger."

Jon takes their hands out of the water and spins her around carefully so that she is facing him. "You  _are_  strong."

Sansa's damp hair flies around her shoulders as she shakes her head. "Not strong enough."

"Yes," he insists, "you are." He squeezes her hands with his. "It takes strength to admit your weaknesses. Trust me," he whispers when she remains silent.

He dries her hands with care with the soft linen cloth that had been hanging by the basin, before leading her back to the bed where she curls up into a ball, drawing the furs up until nothing but her blue eyes and auburn hair remains visible.

"I would have come sooner," he tells her from the chair by the hearth, "but Davos made me wait." He looks at her thoughtfully. "He said you wouldn't want me to draw the attention of Lord Baelish..."

Sansa's lower lip splits as she parts her lips. "Yes."

Jon sighs, leaning forward to rest his face in his hands. "I do not like this," he says, struggling with his emotions. "I want him gone."

"Jon," she says, suddenly afraid, "we need to play this right."

He scoffs. "How? How can we outsmart him?"

The furs pool around Sansa as she sits up. "I need time. I need time to work the other lords, to turn Littlefinger's own plans against him."

Comprehension dawns in Jon's eyes as he stares at her. "Lord Royce," he says slowly, "that is why you favoured him."

"Yes," she replies, nodding.

Jon seems ten years older as he looks at her with weary and worried eyes. "Please," he begs, "please be careful."

Sansa's lips twitch, forming into a small smile. "I will try, trust me."

"I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I'm glad that this chapter is over. I actually had to rewrite it several times because it was just utter garbage. I guess I just need to get over this bump I've had with these last two chapters because I've written later scenes, two which I am very excited about, and one of those includes a certain reunion between someone ;)
> 
> Was there anything you liked about this chapter?
> 
> Did you feel like I did the coronation scene justice or was it just a piece of shit?
> 
> How did you feel about my way of portraying Sansa's feelings when it comes to Jon being crowned king?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of thrones! There will be a second disclaimer at the end, it is important that you read it.
> 
> In the books Robb's last words were "Grey Wind." In the books Jon's last words were "Ghost", that applies for this story as well.
> 
> Note: I apologise in advance for the spelling and grammar mistakes that are going to be in this, it's late and I want to get this chapter out. I also want to point out that English is not my first language and therefore there will probably be even more grammar mistakes, I hope you do not mind too much. I will try to fix it when I get enough time.

Sansa wakes up a couple of hours later into the night by her own scream.

Shadows linger around her and she scrambles backwards, pushing the furs down in her attempt to escape but they keep closing in, whispering...

Another scream tears through the room.

"Sansa!"

Her body shakes uncontrollably as she close her eyes and curl into herself, pressing her face against her pillow that grows soaked with her tears.

"Sansa, it is all right," a voice says from somewhere above her but all she manages is a pitiful whimper. "I promise that you are safe."

The memory of the dream begins to fade away slowly until all that remains is the terror it leaves behind that leaves her an ashen, trembling mess.

"No one is here," the voice continues to whisper, soothingly. "You're safe."

It takes several more agonising moments for the fear the ebb and when it does Sansa can hear the crackling of the fire, feel the cotton underneath her cheek and put a name to the voice that keeps murmuring softly.

"Jon?"

"It's me."

Sansa sags against the bed, slowly opening her eyes to look at him. He is not as close as she had first believed him to be, instead he stands in the middle of the room with his back to the fire, watching her.

"It is all right," he promises, retaking his seat in the chair by the fire and that is when she notices Ghost lying by his feet, watching her with intense red eyes.

"When did he get here?" she asks, surprised at how she could have missed his presence to begin with, seeing as how the wolf is so big that his withers reaches up to Jon's knee when lying down.

"About an hour ago," Jon replies, stroking his hand along the wolf's back.

Sansa's heart beats wildly against her chest, and she brings a hand up to brush away a few damp strands of hair from her forehead. "Have you been here all this time?"

It is too dark for her to really tell but she can almost swear that she sees a slight redness creep onto his cheeks as he looks down at the wolf. "Aye."

Sansa toys with the fur in her lap. "You shouldn't have," she mumbles, glad that he had. "You need rest."

Jon sighs and pets Ghost between his ears. "I have too much to think about to be able to sleep."

She rests her back against the headboard, frowning at him. "What is it that troubles you?"

"Everything," he whispers brokenly.

"Jon," Sansa says firmly, looking into his despaired eyes. "You need to tell me what it is otherwise I won't be able to help you."

He rakes his hands through his hair. "It's this bloody war," he mutters. "We need to prepare for the Others but there is so much more that can go wrong with what is going on in the South..."

"I've been thinking about that as well," Sansa admits.

She had thought about it for many nights, ever since they had received the news of the Blackfish's defeat. It was something that had kept her up for hours as she tried to mull it over but then whispers had begun to spread about the Dragon Queen and that was when Sansa had come to the conclusion to not worry about it just yet.

"What are you thinking about?" Jon asks, watching her quietly with the same intense gaze as the wolf by his feet.

"I..." she begins, sighing heavily, "I think we shouldn't worry about the South just yet."

Jon furrows his brows at her and leans forward. "How can we not?" He hesitates looking as if he is about to say something else but then thinks better of it, not wanting to expose her to more haunting memories.

Sansa waits, waits for him to realise that they cannot protect each other any longer by not speaking of things they have both considered taboo.

It takes Jon a long time to finally part his lips, looking at her with a silent apology in his eyes. "The Lannisters will be wanting revenge... they will want you."

His words does not put any fear into her, not like Littlefinger's actions had done earlier that night. The Lannisters are too far removed to evoke any fear, not for now at least.

"Yes," Sansa agrees, "Cersei is asking for my head, but she is not an immediate threat." She looks thoughtfully into the fire, watching the flames dance. "There are rumours about Daenerys Targaryen assembling an army..."

"Targaryen..." Jon whispers to himself, thinking of the words Maester Aemon had said to him, and of the ones he had overheard being told to Sam.

"The Lannisters will have to turn their attention to her and the threat she poses," Sansa continues, watching Jon. "Which means we have time to concern ourselves with more pressing matters."

"So," Jon begins, bracing his arms on his knees as he looks at her, "you're suggesting we do nothing?"

"Yes. We let their war play out without our interference and when it is finished and only one of them remain standing we strike a deal with them."

He looks relieved at her words but Sansa cannot help but frown at the concern she sees in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Jon sinks his fingers deeper into Ghost's fur, taking comfort in the warmth his presence provides. "Is that what you wish to do? Do you not want revenge?"

Sansa sucks in a deep breath, it is the first time in a very long time that anyone has asked what she wants. "Of course I want revenge," her voice grows darker with each passing word, full of yearning, "but this is not about what I want."

Jon smiles sadly. "That is what I kept being told when I wanted to join Robb."

Sansa's head perks up at this, it is the first time he has ever mentioned it, and suddenly she needs to know, needs to know how he handled it, how he managed not to forsake his vows.

"How could you bear it?"

"I didn't," he confesses, thinking back to the night which had lead him to the path he is now on. "They came after me — Sam, Pyp and Grenn." He laughs despite himself. "Sam rode straight into a branch, it threw him right off of his horse, and then I could hear their voices. That is what made me turn back around." He grows quite, looking down at Ghost with sorrowful eyes.

"I am glad you did."

"You are?" he asks baffled, having expected her to feel disgusted with him for choosing the Night's Watch over Robb.

Sansa nods and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yes," she promises. "You would have wasted your life for nothing." They both know what happens to deserters. "Robb would not have wanted that."

Jon locks his gaze with hers. "No revenge then?"

She nods. "No revenge."

"We will have to close the Neck," he says, furrowing his brows, deep in thought.

"Yes," she agrees, looking down at Ghost who has stretched out by Jon's feet. "We need to man it with enough men to hold it long enough for the rest of the North to arrive if there is to be an invasion."

Jon nods in agreement before looking up at her with attentive eyes. "I was considering giving Moat Cailin to Tormund."

The furs slip down onto the floor as Sansa gets out of the bed, walking barefoot over the warm stones until she stands by the window, gazing out into the darkness with her own reflection staring back at her with a troubled expression. "I think... that is wise of you." Jon makes a noise of surprise, not having expected her to agree with him. "It is a good land to farm on and it would show the trust you have for the Free Folk."

"Tormund," he contemplates, watching her back, "Tormund would not be able to lay claim to it yet... I need him here with me."

"Have him choose a man he trusts to be his second in command and then send them to Moat Cailin." Sansa turns around so that she can look at him. "The other lords will not take lightly to you entrusting something so important to the Wildlings which is why you are going to need to send northerners with them."

"Aye," Jon agrees. "The Free Folk will need to learn how to fight the way we do. They cannot hold the causeway by themselves."

"We need to chose someone who is willing to work with the Free Folk," Sansa muses, thinking hard about who would be the most likely candidate. "They need to set an example for the other northerners, showing that they respect that Moat Cailin belongs to the Free Folk."

"What about Lord Glover?"

Sansa keeps quite, thinking carefully about the options they have laid out before them. "That might be a wise choice..."

The corners of Jon's mouth twitch. "I'm sensing a but."

" _But_ ," she continues, "his approval of you as king is what made many others come around, which is why it would also be wise to keep him here."

Jon frowns, it had been so much easier at the Wall when the men had had to do what they had been told, when he had not had to play this never ending game. "Perhaps Lord Manderly..." he trails off when Sansa shakes her head.

"No," she tells him, "we need Lord Manderly here or at White Harbor." She walks back over to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it. "You will send Lord Glover and half of the men he has left, it will be his chance to redeem himself."

"He does not have to redeem himself-" Jon begins but Sansa cuts him off with a sharp look.

"Yes he does otherwise his promise is just empty words." Jon cannot argue with that. "It will also show the trust you have in him, to have him guard one of the most important strongholds in the North." A desperation builds inside of Sansa as she looks at him, afraid that he will not understand the importance of what she is trying to teach him. "When this is all over, Jon, when Lord Glover has done his duty you can reward him but you have to let him carry it out first, he has to prove himself."

The need for him to understand has her on her feet, crossing the floor until she is by his side where she kneels so that she is looking up into his eyes. "The most crucial thing now is that you and Tormund speak with your men, making it clear that they need to work with each other, respect each other, otherwise we are doomed." She clutches at his leg. "Promise me, Jon."

"I promise."

* * *

The coming weeks are hard. Jon and Sansa spend their days with their advisers attempting to build some sort of semblance of a strategy which means that the North has to barricade itself from the South, something the lords of the Vale do not take kindly to.

"We cannot let the war in the South distract us from the real threat," Jon begins in a resolute voice as he regards every single one of them gathered in the Great Hall. "We have to turn our forces north. The Night's Watch is almost extinct and those who remain will not be able to hold the Wall against the Others alone."

Lord Royce chair creaks underneath his weight as he leans forward to look Jon in the eye. "Do you propose we do nothing? That we do not return to the Vale to protect our home?"

"Forgive me, my King," Sansa says from Jon's left, waiting for his approval before she continues turning towards Lord Royce. "Believe me my lord when I say that I share your pain. I know what it feels like to leave your home, your family, your lands and then have to watch it all be taken away from you... but you must remain strong in your belief that the Vale will prevail."

Lord Royce's eyes soften at her words. "Of course, my lady, but you must understand our need to look after out people."

Sansa's blue eyes shine with sympathy. "I do, never doubt that." She casts a look at Littlefinger, who is studying them silently from further down the table. "How much of your army did you leave behind when you came here, my lord?" she asks Lord Royce.

"More than half."

Sansa's lips curl into a smile. "Well then," she says smoothly, "There is no need for us to worry about the Vale for you are famed for being great warriors and Cersei Lannister will not be able to lay claim to it even if she is foolish enough to try."

Jon sees how Sansa's words hits their target in the way Lord Royce straightens his shoulders and juts his chin out proudly. "Lady Stark is right."

Sansa smiles sweetly. "I am glad to hear you say so. I trust that you left capable men behind to advise my cousin Lord Arryn?" She directs the question at Lord Royce but looks at Littlefinger, giving him the respect he deserves.

Lord Royce opens his mouth about to respond but Littlefinger's smooth voice has him closing it into a thin line, with a crease appearing between his bushy eyebrows.

"Of course I have, my lady," Littlefinger promises. "There is no need to worry about Lord Arryn."

"That is a relief to hear."

Litllefinger locks his gaze with Sansa, staring at her with a deep intensity that is only broken when Jon clears his throat, regaining everyone's attention. "If we are to keep the Vale safe we need to eliminate the threat that comes from the north."

"But how?" demands Cley Cerwin, looking at him with slight distrust in his eyes. "How do we kill an Other? If they do exist..."

"Fire," Tormund replies from Jon's right.

"Fire!" Lord Royce sputters indignantly, glaring at the Wildling. "We are preparing for the longest winter in living memory and you propose we use fire?"

Sensing an oncoming fight Jon raises one commanding hand, silencing the two men. "There are other ways to kill an Other." His hand goes to his side, unsheathing Longclaw and laying it out on the table for all to see. "Valyrian steel is one but there is also Dragonglass."

"None of which are easy to come by," Wyman Manderly points out, having been admiring the fine craftsmanship of the blade.

"Aye," Jon agrees. "Supposedly there is Dragonglass at Dragonstone..."

Murmurs of concern spread throughout the group which has Sansa getting onto her feet. "There might be Dragonglass at Dragonstone but my lords," she turns towards Lyanna, inclining her head, "my lady, we do not have enough men to spare in order to retrieve it, not with the Lannisters and the Freys controlling the Twins."

"Then we are doomed!" Beren Hornwood exclaims brusquely.

Sansa ignores his loud outburst, looking at every single one of them gathered there. "No," she says calmly, "it is as Tormund Giantsbane has said, we can kill Wights with fire and that is what we will do. We will send forces to Castle Black and the uninhabited strongholds along the Wall where we will prepare for the Others and then we will kill as many as possible with fire."

"Fire won't be enough!" Lord Manderly objects vehemently.

Sansa's voice is cool and her eyes are hard as she turns to look at him. "Certainly not, my lord, but it is all we have as of now and as our King has said we cannot turn our forces South not even for Dragonglass. We shall let the war in the South play out without our hand in it and when it is over and believe me my lords, it is at its tipping point, we shall open its ruler's eyes to the real threat and that is when we will send men to Dragonstone."

Silence descends upon the Great Hall after her speech and she gives Jon an encouraging nod as she takes her seat, folding her hands in her lap.

The chair scrapes against the floor as Jon gets onto his feet. "Lady Stark speaks truly," he says, looking down at her. "We need to prepare the North for the Long Night. The Night's Watch can barely man three strongholds as it is — Castle Black, Shadow Tower and Eastwatch. The remainder of Ramsay Bolton's forces will be sent to take the black and they will help man those castles.

Sansa catches the way his eyes flicker to her for a second and how his fingers flex at his side. "We will also send a thousand of our own men to help assist the Brothers of the Night's Watch."

Pandemonium erupts.

"We cannot!" Cley Cerwyn cries indignantly, echoed by several others.

Sansa has to bite down on the inside of her cheek to hold her tongue. She turns her head to look at Jon with an impassive expression but the angry one on his face has her momentarily forgetting her own opinions.

"It is not a question of what we can and cannot do, Lord Cerwyn," he says in a calm and collected voice that carries an underlying tone of anger. "It is a question of what we  _will_  do, and we will send men to help man the Wall. They will not have to swear any vows and if called upon they are to return but until then they will be aiding the Night's Watch in their fight against the Others."

The young lord has enough sense about him to bow his head in submission. "Forgive me, my King, I only meant to say that with not much of our forces remaining perhaps... it would be wise to keep them at hand."

"The lad's right, Your Grace," Lord Mazin begins to say. "It-"

"Have you not been paying attention, Lord Mazin?" Lyanna Mormont asks from her place next to Ser Davos, raising her eyebrows at him. "If we do not hold the North against the Others there will be no one left to protect, why should we keep our forces here?" she looks at each of them gathered there. "Lord Glover and Tormund Giantbane's men are holding Moat Cailin, we needn't concern ourselves with that right now. Lady stark is right, we let the war in the South play out, while we prepare for a war of our own and that requires our men at the Wall."

A few tiring hours later they all manage to come to an agreement, which will see a thousand men departing for the Wall within a fortnight while the rest of the North will be strengthening its strongholds.

* * *

Sansa is wandering through the lichyard when Littlefinger seeks her out, following her footsteps in the snow to the heart of the ancient burial ground.

"This is such a dreary place for someone so alive such as you to spend their time at, my love," he calls causing her to turn around only to find him standing dark clad against the white landscape and grey stones.

"I like it here," she offers, allowing her hand to trail along a headstone as she steps around it.

He follows her silently, glancing down at the stone with a distaste he does not try to hide. "It does not do well to dwell on the dead."

"It is peaceful," she says, slowly moving away from him.

He chuckles. "In some ways you are still very much that sweet girl, my dear." He watches her as she slips in and out between the graves with her grey cloak trailing behind her in the snow.

Sansa stops, holding herself stiffly before she turns to look at him with vacant eyes. "I doubt that, my lord."

Littlefinger hastily moves closer at the glimmer of vulnerability. "Sansa..." His eyes display something akin to sympathy as he steps up to her, wearing a mask of regret and self loathing. "It pains me to see you like this... let me help you."

"Help me?" she echoes incredulously.

"Yes," he whispers, taking one step closer and she closes her eyes.

Her laughter echoes loudly through the lichyard. "It is too late for that."

Littlefinger's sharp features are sympathetic even caring but his eyes glimmer with a hint of amusement. "It is never too late."

"The help I needed," Sansa allows her voice to tremble ever so slightly, "the help I craved, cannot be given to me. It is too late for that."

He steps up to the headstone she is behind, brushing his knees against it as he speaks. "If I could flay Ramsay for what he did to you I would."

Sansa forces herself to remain where she is as she breaths in the scent of mint coming from his breath. "Ramsay is dead."

"Yes," Littlefinger agrees, curious now, "the details about his death are rather muddy. Was it your brother that had him executed?"

"Yes."

He shakes his head. "A death too kind. I would have had him suffer for you."

Her lips twitch. "You say a lot, Lord Baelish, but rarely do you do anything."

Littlefinger steps back as if she has wounded him.  _Lies_ , she thinks,  _all lies._  "Sansa.." he begins quietly, carefully, "I am truly sorry that I could not be here for you, you have no idea how it pains me." He looks at her distraught. "But to say I have not done anything for you... Sansa, my sweetling, I got you out of King's Landing, I brought you an army. I did it all for you."

Sansa's face is grim as she looks at the short man before her. "Because you loved my Mother?"

"No," he whispers huskily, "because I love you."

Sansa's breath leaves her lips in a trembling cloud of smoke as she closes her eyes, obscuring the vulnerability in them from his view.

"Sansa, you must believe me," he insists. "I never thought it would come to this when I left you."

Her eyes snap open, staring at him coldly. "But it did."

"Yes," he agrees, sighing sadly. "If you only would allow me to help you..."

"How?" she asks. "How can you help me?"

It is only a mere flicker that flashes across his face in less than a blink of an eye but Sansa catches it, seeing the victory he thinks he has won.

"By giving you what you want the most."

"The North?"

He chuckles as if she has said something to amuse him. "Yes, my sweetling, but don't you want to be queen?"

She casts her eyes down at the headstone that separates them, following the cracks in the stone that time has made. "Is this about your picture?"

"Always," he whispers.

Sansa lifts her gaze, looking into his hungry eyes. "The North is my home."

She cannot help but be amused as Littlefinger looks around them, watching for eyes and ears that do not belong, it is unusual of him... he is always the watcher. "I mean for us to take the whole realm," he says, gripping at the headstone with his hands. "Daenerys Targaryen sails for King's Landing with an army consisting of well over a hundred thousand men."

"Even more reason for us not to intervene."

Littlefinger smiles. "Your half-brother may have chosen to ignore the war in the south, but I, my dear, think we should play it to our advantage."

Sansa's hands are tight fists underneath her cloak. "The North cannot afford to take part in another southorn war."

"But you propose we fight ghosts?"

She straightens her shoulders, giving him a cold glare. "Winter is here."

"Ah, my dear," he chuckles, "you do not believe in those old tales."

It is too important for all of their survival that they believe in what is to come – especially those in power – which is why Sansa chooses the truth. "I advise you to visit the Wall before you discard them so easily."

Littlefinger blinks up at her surprised. "Sansa... do not fear the dead for they are gone."

"That is what everyone thought about the dragons and yet we have a queen sailing across the Narrow Sea with three of them."

"Yes," he agrees, "but dragons have never just been tales, have they?"

Sansa thinks of the dragon skulls she had heard about being stowed away in the dank cellar underneath the Red Keep, some of them had been small... no bigger than a dog's. "I've heard that the last dragons were small and frail."

"Not these," Littlefinger promises. "Daenerys's dragons are said to be big and powerful, I believe she would not need half of her army to take King's Landing with them at her side."

Sansa looks at him confused. "Then how would you be able to take the throne from her?"

The corner of Littlefinger's lips curl upwards, forming into a crooked smile. "She may be young and beautiful but she grew up in a foreign land and knows little of our politics, that will be her downfall."

"So," Sansa says as she steps away from the headstone and moves over to the next one, all while he watches her intently, "you are going to take her down from the inside?"

"Does that surprise you?"

She peers over her shoulder at him. "No." She looks towards the Crypts entrance, watching the white wolf that stalks around it. "What of her army? If it is that big..."

"We shall turn her army against her," Littlefinger promises. "As of now she has the support of the Greyjoys and Olenna Tyrell, people whom value our way of living and who will not take lightly to the way of the Dothraki, and if the Dragon Queen cannot live up to her allies expectations they will turn on her."

"It is a weak plan," Sansa tells him truthfully.

Littlefinger follows the path in the snow she has made. "Not if I bide my time." He lifts one hand as he comes within her reach. "Sansa," he whispers about to stroke her cheek but then he lets out a loud yelp as he finds himself on his back with Ghost snapping his teeth threateningly in his face as he pushes both of his large paws down onto Littlefinger's chest.

"Sansa!" Littlefinger wheezes, staring up at her with frightened eyes, not daring to move.

She jumps back as if shocked while she silently relishes at the fear in Littlefinger's voice. "Ghost!" she yells, demanding the wolf's attention. It turns its head slowly – pressing down harder on Littlefinger's chest – to look at her. "To me!"

Ghost fixes his red stare on the man beneath him and pushes his large muzzle so close to Littlefinger's face that he can smell the scent of raw meet coming from the beast's warm breath. Ghost snaps his teeth one more time, mere inches from Littlefinger's face before he pushes off of him, quietly moving to stand next to Sansa.

"Are you all right?" She asks worriedly as she watches Littlefinger breath heavily, staring up at the white sky. "Oh, Petyr, I am so sorry! He does not take kindly to strangers, I would have warned you but I did not see him."

"My ribs," he groans, rolling onto his side, clutching at them.

Sansa glances down at the giant wolf by her side. "They might be broken... wait here and I shall go fetch help!"

She does not allow him to speak, dashing through the snow towards the Guard's Hall. She has gotten halfway to it when he cries out for her to stop which she does, turning around with Ghost at her heels to find him supporting himself on a headstone as he struggles to get back up onto his feet.

"There is no need for that!" he calls.

"Are you certain?" she calls back, making to step towards him but his yell for her to remain where she is has her halting.

"Yes, yes," he insists, watching Ghost with wary eyes. "I just got the wind knocked out of me, that is all. You best not come any closer, it might attack again."

Sansa glances down at Ghost whose eyes are focused on the limping man. "You are right... I am so sorry!"

She watches him with worried eyes as he quickly limps past them, apologising and asking if he is certain he does not need any assistance. It is only when he has disappeared past the Guard's Hall that she turns to look down at the wolf.

"Thank you, Ghost."

* * *

Sansa is out by the North Gate playing with a group of children she had found squabbling earlier – one part being Free Folk and the other northerners. She had broken up their fight, reminding them that they were all on the same side now and that they should keep their anger for the real enemy, the Night King. She had fully intended to leave them be afterwards but then Willa had called out for her to stay, begging her to tell more stories and so she had.

The children had all gathered around her in a circle in the snow, watching her with big expectant eyes and smiles on their faces. That was when Sansa had been reminded of Margaery Tyrell and her frequent visits to to the orphanages in King's Landing. Sansa had surveyed their surroundings discreetly as she recounted some of Old Nan's tales, noticing the watchful eyes of both the northerners and the Free Folk.  _Show them_ , she had thought to herself,  _show them through the children that they can work together._

By the time she has finished her tale about the Rat Cook it has begun to snow, big and wet snowflakes had fallen to the ground and soon the children had begun to fashion themselves snowballs. It had not taken long for a war to break out between the children but the good kind of war, and to Sansa's delight the teams that had unconsciously been formed consisted of both northerners and Free Folk.

"Got you!" Willa shouts gleefully as a hard snowball hits Sansa's right shoulder, crumbling, causing Sansa to grit her teeth.

"You just wait!" She yells back and the girl shrieks in delight, scurrying off.

Sansa does not attempt to bend down to make a snowball of her own, instead she closes her eyes and tries to breath through the pain that pulsates through her shoulder.

"Is it true?"

She spins around to find Tormund leaning against the stone wall, watching her with an amused glint in his eyes. "What?"

"That Ghost had a go at that fucking cunt," he chuckles.

Sansa furrows her brows at him and steps away from the children, bringing her closer to him. "Who told you?"

He lifts one shoulder, shrugging. "A Free Folk lad. I had him on guard duty."

Sansa does not remember seeing anyone but she does not doubt his word. "Tormund," she says, suddenly worried, "people cannot know about it."

He shrugs again, not questioning her decision. "The boy will keep quiet."

She lets out a relieved sigh. "Thank you."

He pushes away from the wall, laughing merrily. "That wolf deserves a roast."

* * *

"Theon Greyjoy?" Davos asks from his seat by the end of the table inside the council chamber.

"Yes," Sansa answers from over by the fire.

Tormund on the other hand is much more fascinated by another part of her story. "Dragons?"

She nods, watching the flames lick at the logs in the hearth. "Three of them."

Davos chances a glance at Jon who is pacing the room, silently fuming. "Your Grace, if I may be so bold-"

"No," Jon says, raising one silencing hand.

Davos looks over at Sansa who shakes her head. "It would be in your best interest to," he continues but Jon whirls around - barely able to contain the anger that is building up inside of him – and braces his hands on the table, closing them into tight fists.

"I will not hear any of it."

"You have to, Jon," Sansa insists, walking up to him. "He can help us."

"He betrayed Robb!" Jon snaps, glaring at her.

She juts her chin out and clenches her hands at her sides. "And he saved me."

Jon refuses to meet her eyes, instead he chooses to glare down at the table. A muscles in his jaw jumps as he works his teeth against each other. "He burned down our home."

Sansa refuses to give in, staring at him even though he won't look back. "He has suffered enough for it." That is what finally gets him to look at her, startled. "Believe me."

Jon sinks back into his chair, signalling defeat. "Go on, Ser Davos."

Davos bows his head before looking into his king's heated eyes. "Strike an alliance with Daenerys Stormborn, have Theon Geryjoy put in a good word."

To all of their surprise it is Sansa that speaks out about her concerns. "I am not against an alliance with the Dragon Queen," she says, looking at each one of them, "gods know we need all the fire and all the men we can get, but what if she wants to lay claim to the North as well?"

Davos sighs, rubbing a hand over his ageing face. "That is a possibility... but one we will have to deal with once it comes."

Tormund looks at them all with mild curiosity. "You Kneelers confuse me with your fancy words and actions that means more than what they are," he tells them, earning himself an amused smile from Jon. "But I say you write this traitor and demand that he helps you."

"Aye," Jon finally agrees, looking at Sansa. "Aye, just give me some time."

Sansa nods, they have time. Daenerys Stormborn has yet to arrive with her army and dragons, it will give her time to contemplate on what it means for the North.

They all part for the night afterwards, going to their separate lodgings, but unlike so many times before Jon does not wait for Sansa to accompany him up the stairs that lead to the floor housing their chambers, instead he follows Davos out the door with large strides.

Sansa attempts to follow him but he manages to disappear up the spiraling staircase out of her view before she has made it out of the council room. She quickens her steps, lifting her long skirts as she dashes up stairs only to see Jon's retreating back disappear around a corner. She is about to call out for him but then thinks better of it, taking a right turn into dark corridor that seemingly leads the opposite direction.

Sansa waits in the shadows of it, holding her breath as she listens, waiting to see is she has been followed. When no sound can be detected she takes one of the many narrow passageways that will lead her into the one that houses both her and Jon's chambers.

Sansa does not knock on his door, instead she pushes it open and slips inside, making sure to latch it so that no one will disturb them.

Jon stands with his back to her, spinning a half full cup of ale around on the table with his hand.

"Are you angry with me?"

He stops his fiddling but does not turn around. "No."

She uses her hands to push away from the door and takes a couple of steps until she stands in the middle of the room, looking at the bed her mother and father had once shared... and later had belonged to Roose Bolton.

"What's wrong?"

"I am tired of it all, Sansa," he confesses in a broken whisper that makes the blood in her veins grow cold.

"Jon..."

He does not seem to hear her as he scoffs to himself. "It should have been me, not Robb." Lady Catelyn had said as much. She had told him that it should have been him and not Bran that ought to lie dying. She would have agreed with him now if she had been alive.

Sansa's feet carry her quickly across the room where she takes hold of his arm and spins him around to face her. "Enough," she hisses angrily, "enough of this foolishness."

"It is not foolishness," he insists before twisting out of her hold. "Robb would know what to do. Robb would be able to accept  _Theon's_ apology," as the name leaves his lips Jon takes hold his cup and throws it against the stone wall where it breaks, splashing ale against the stones that slowly trickles down onto the floor.

Sasna had not meant to but the sound of the collision has her jumping back, wide eyed and with her pulse quickening.

"I'm sorry," Jon apologises, having regretted his behaviour the instant the cup left his grasp.

Sansa does not attempt to move closer to him instead she narrows her eyes at him. "What's wrong?"

Jon tugs at the loose strands of hair that has escaped his bun, squeezing his eyes shut as dead faces flash before them.  _Pyp, Grenn, Jeor Mormont, Qhorin Halfhand, Mance, Ygritte, Olly... For the watch._ Vacant eyes and broken bodies is all there is.

"Shh, it's all right," soft hands stroke his face, running over his sweaty brow and down his heated cheeks. "Jon, you are here with me," a gentle voice says from afar. "Shh, it's all right, you are all right." Soft fingertips flutter lightly over his eyelids, once, twice. "Jon, open your eyes."

He does not want to, afraid of the carnage he will see. Afraid of all the bodies lying broken around him.

"Jon," the voice coaxes, "I promise that there is nothing to be afraid of here."

He hesitantly opens his eyes, finding himself curled up into a ball on the floor and having no memory of how he came to be in that position, with Sansa kneeling by his side, holding his face in her hands.

Her hair falls down over her shoulder like a shimmering red curtain obscuring his view of the rest of the room. "There you are," she whispers, smiling.

"I'm sorry," he croaks, wincing as his throat burns.

Sansa strokes both of her thumbs down his cheeks. "It happens to the best of us."

They stay like that for a long time. Jon with his knees drawn up to underneath his chin and his arms wound tightly around them, protecting his chest. Sansa kneeling by him, running her fingertips along his face, all while whispering soft meaningless words.

Sansa waits until his breathing has calmed before leaning closer him which has their noses almost touching and all Jon can look at is her eyes, so full of life. "Jon," she says, stroking a finger along his brow, "you know you are the right person for this? You do realise that?" When he does not responds she continues on. "No one, not even Robb would have been able to unify the North as you have." Her finger trail over his lips. "You brought the northerners and the Free Folk together, you have created a peace that would never have been thought of before.  _You_ did it, no on else would have been able to, that is why you are the right person to rule."

Jon shakes his head and drags his knees against his chest. "I'm not even supposed to be here."

"And just because of that, because you are even thought you're not supposed to, makes it even more clear that you are the right one."

Jon unfolds himself slowly, raising one hand to his clutch at his chest as he stretches his legs out. "If you could see what I looked like you would not think so."

Sansa smiles, amused by his words. "We all have scars, Jon."

He shakes his head. "Not like these."

She drops her hands from his face, placing one of them over his own. "Show me then," she insists. "Show me why I should think differently of you."

If anyone were to ask Jon why he did it later he would not be able to give them an answer. All he knows is that he needed for her to see, for her to understand that he was not normal. He had been dead and in some ways death still clung to him.

He finds himself on the bed with her standing in front of him as he removes his belt and scabbard, followed by his jerkin and then the shirt falls away to reveal his bare torso. His grey orbs search Sansa's face worriedly, waiting for her emotions to betray her, to reveal the revulsion that is hiding beneath the surface, but it does not come...

Jon's face is etched with disgust as Sansa reaches out for him with a steady hand and he sucks in a deep breath as she skims her slender fingers over his pectoralis, down towards his ribs where they encounter one of the raw and open wounds. Sansa's eyes flicker up to his face only to find him with his head bowed, eyes cast downwards, hiding behind his hair.

She ghosts her fingertips over the wound and shivers as her fingers dip into it. When she draws her hand back her fingers come away bloodied and she cannot help but marvel at the coldness of the blood that ought to be warm and thick, not cold and thin.

At the loss of contact Jon falls forward, bracing his arms against his knees, hanging his head in defeat. Sansa's eyes harden with determination as she watches the muscles in his back and arms ripple as he fists his hands.

Jon does not look up at the sound of her skirts rustling against the floor, if possible his head lowers until the tip of his nose brushes against his knees, but when he hears the distinct sound of fabric dropping onto the floor his head snaps up and all thoughts about him and his scars leaves his mind.

"Sansa..."

Through the thin fabric of her white slip Jon can see both faded scars and red angry ones running down the length of her back, but the worst mark is the grotesque one peeking out from underneath the slip on her right shoulder. He feels his stomach roll with nausea as his eyes travel along the purplish-blue outline of the mark, and his nails dig painfully into his palms as his eyes land on the poorly done job of stitching the skin together. The skin is yellow in some places between the stitches and it has clearly begun to bulge out, Jon cannot even begin to fathom the pain she must be in.

Her slip falls onto her hips revealing her naked back to him, which is covered entirely in scars. Some of the are faint and faded while others are raw and blistering red, oozing fluid after having been reopened from rubbing against the fabric of her clothes.

Sansa pulls her slip up so that it covers her breasts before turning to face him with an unrelenting stare. "Do not pity me Jon, because I do not pity you."

He blinks and his eyes land on the scar above her right breast, it is eerily similar to the one marring his skin at the top of his breast muscle, the only difference being that the half moon shaped is not the result of a knife but someone's teeth.

The mattress dips as she sits down next to him with their thighs brushing against each other. Jon turns to face her, resting his calloused hand on the small of her back causing Sansa to shiver and for goosebumps to appear on her body. His hand slowly begins to travel up her spine towards the gruesome mark.

"Does it hurt a lot?" he asks concerned as she as she hisses through clenched teeth.

"Not as much as it used to."

Jon regards the irritated skin where the cut has been sown together, it is truly a poor job. "Who did it?" He feels her stiffen and quickly closes his eyes, berating himself. "Who stitched it up?"

"Theon."

Jon forces his hand to remain still, to not betray his true feelings for the coward but his blood boils at the mere thought of him. "Has it been in this state for long?" he asks, eyeing the infected skin. It cannot have been like this since Castle Black, the fever would have claimed her by now if that was the case.

Sansa shakes her head. "No, I accidentally reopened it a couple of days ago."

He sucks in a deep breath, imagining the pain it must have been causing her. "Why haven't you said anything?"

She lifts her uninjured shoulder in a half-shrug, laughing at her own stupidity. "There were other more pressing matters-"

"Sansa..."

"-and I thought it would heal by itself."

Jon can tell by just looking at it that it will not heal by itself. "It needs to be reopened."

Sansa nods causing some of her hair to fall over her shoulder and onto her back where it brushes against his hand. "Will you do it?"

"Yes."

* * *

 Sansa watches with some trepidation as Jon heats the blade of a knife in the flames of the hearth. He looks up at her with a grim expression, nodding at the vial he has laid out on a white cloth by her side. "You should drink that."

"I didn't have it last time," she says, recoginsing it.

Jon looks at her truly taken aback. "He didn't give you Milk of the poppy?"

Sansa laughs bitterly at the shock and anger in his voice. "No, it was not something to be wasted on us."

Jon stands with the blade grasped firmly in his grip. "I want you to drink it."

Sansa eyes it for a second before pulling the cork off. She tips her head back as she raises the vial to her mouth, feeling the liquid burn its way down her throat.

It does not take long for the room to begin to spin. She can scarcely make out Jon as he moves around above her in a blurred line of different dancing shades. She feels his hand on her back, pushing her down onto the bed and the last thing that goes through her mind is how odd it feels for everything to be spinning but for his hand that rests so firmly against her back.

There is a loud pop as Jon tears away the cork from a large flask with his teeth, spitting it out onto the floor by his feet. He pours a generous amount of spirits onto the wound causing some of it to drip down her scarred back onto the sheets, soaking it.

"Sansa?" he asks, bending down to get a better view of her face resting against the mattress. He strokes a few strands of hair away from her face behind her ear, assuring himself that she is unconscious before he begins.

He brings the heated blade down, slicing through her skin, reopening the old wound. He takes care to remove all of the discoloured skin and quickly brings the blade flat down against the wound as blood begins to pour out. The skin sizzles and an acrid odour penetrates his nostrils which has him removing the blade swiftly before picking up the flask from earlier, dousing the now closed wound with its content.

* * *

Sansa wakes several hours later with a loud groan that has Jon on his feet in an instant, leaving the fur covered chair he had been occupying.

"Easy, easy," he soothes as he reaches her side, putting a hand on her uninjured shoulder to halt her attempts of sitting up. "You shouldn't move around too much."

Sansa's voice is groggy as she blink bleary-eyed at his leather trousers which is the only thing she can see in the position she is in. "Jon?"

"Yes," he replies, stroking a hand along her exposed shoulder blade. "You need to rest."

She shakes her head, hissing in pain, and Jon has to reach out quickly, capturing her hair in his hands to prevent it from falling against her wound.

"I can't... there are too many things."

Jon frowns and bends down next to her, still holding onto her hair. "What do you mean?" he asks, staring into her unfocused eyes.

She parts her lips and blinks up at him confused. "There are too many i-images," she slurs.

Jon's forehead is creased with concern. "Do you mean dreams?"

She nods and then hisses as she jostles her shoulder. Jon's chest twist painfully, afraid that he has condemned her to a night of torment by having her drink Milk of the poppy. He wants to ask her about them but he is also afraid that it will only worsen the situation, is she is not dreaming about Ramsay then perhaps his question will trigger it.

"Do you remember that one time in the Crypts when we were children?" he begins in a steady voice as one of his hands reaches for his own hair, untying the leather string that keeps it out of his eyes, "when Robb and I decided to scare Arya, Bran and you?"

The only response Jon receives is a barely coherent yes.

"We planned it for a whole day," he continues as he drops then thin band onto the bed and gathers her hair in both of his hands, dividing it into three sections. "Robb wanted it to be perfect so we snuck into the kitchen after we had created a distraction outside of it that would demand everyone's attention."

"Cock," Sansa croaks and Jon stops to gape at her.

"What?"

"The cock in the corridor."

Jon laughs loudly. "Yes," he chuckles remembering the chaos that had erupted which had created enough time for Robb to sneak into the kitchen to steal a whole batch of flour.

"It was a vicious little beast," he tells her as he begins to braid her hair with clumsy fingers. "By the time we had managed to catch it we were both covered head to toe in scratches, feathers and feces." His eyes are far away as he chuckles. "Robb looked hilarious, he had feathers sticking out of his hair and his face was covered in dirt and somehow the bird had managed to give him a bloodied lip. It took a bit of explaining on his part."

He finishes the braid off and ties it with his leather string, allowing it to slip out of his hands to hang off of the side of the bed.

"We waited until after supper before bringing you down to the Crypts," he continues. "We wanted to make it as scary as possible so we allowed darkness to fall before I doused myself in the flour and snuck down there."

He cranes his neck watching as the light in the room illuminates the snow outside that whips against the window. "It was on a night like this... although warmer. Robb persuaded the three of you to come with him... well he persuaded you, Bran and Arya were more than willing to tag along."

Sansa lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like a snort.

"I could hear your footsteps echo down the passage, followed by Bran's worried voice. Then Robb let out this loud cuss, pretending to have stubbed his toe which was my cue."

Jon's hair whips around in the air behind him as he throws his head back and laughs heartily. "They way you shrieked Sansa, gods you sounded like a banshee. I think your scream scared Bran more than I did," he says remembering how the small child had clung to Robb, hiding his face against Robb's leg with tears springing to his eyes.

"But Arya had the best reaction." Jon's eyes glaze over as he looses himself in the memory and a wide smile spreads out across his face. "She simply folded her arms over her chest and gave me this unimpressed look as she said, 'You scared the baby'."

"I remember," Sansa mumbles sleepily with a small smile playing on her lips.

Jon smiles as well but it is a sad one as he is reminded of the cruel truth that most of his siblings are no longer alive. He watches as Sasna looses the battle against sleep, and he hopes that he has succeeded in giving her mind something else to occupy itself with.

He stands intending to give her some peace but she stops him by wrapping a hand around his wrist.

"Jon."

He looks down at her but she keeps her bleary eyes on the headboard, blinking furiously against her drooping lids. "Don't they heal?" she slurs.

"Don't what heal?" he asks perplexed.

Sansa hisses loudly as she sits up and begins to sway dangerously causing Jon to reach out and hold her by her forearms. "Easy."

She slips her hand underneath his shirt without any forewarning. It travels along the taut skin of his stomach until it finds one of his wounds. "This," she says, lightly running her fingers over it.

He frowns looking down at the bulge her hand has created underneath his shirt. "No, I don't think they will..."

Sansa nods and begins to draw soft patterns around it which causes goosebumps to arise all over his body, his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows thickly.

Her blue eyes glimmer brightly in the candle light as she blinks up at him. "I think I need to lie down..." She cups her hand over her mouth. "I don't feel well..."

Jon reacts quickly, beginning to ease her back onto her stomach but before he can get her to lie down fully she lurches to the side, retching onto his boots before slumping back down onto the bed, groaning. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry," she mumbles into the sheet, smearing vomit on it.

"Shh," Jon soothes, grabbing a cloth from the bedside table before gently lifting her head to wipe at her mouth. "It's not your fault."

Sansa mumbles something unintelligible as he places her head back onto the mattress, stroking his finger through a soft curl that has escaped from her braid.

He steps away from her once her even breathing joins the gentle crackling of the fire. He makes his way quietly over to the wash basin – placed in the furthers corner of the room- where he unlaces his boots before pouring water onto them, cleaning the sick off of them.

He is just about to exit the room when her drowsy voice reaches him. "Jon."

He almost believes that he must have imagined it as he turns around to look at her motionless body but then her voice cuts through the silence.

"Where are you going?"

He glances at the closed door and then back to her. "I thought I'd leave you to your rest."

She attempts to push herself up onto her elbows but she does not quite manage for longer than a couple of seconds before slumping back down. "Stay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Disclaimer: The part where Arya says "You scared the baby" and the way she reacts was taken from naomi-makes-art73 drawing The Crypts Beneath Winterfell on Deviantart. It's a hilarious drawing that I came across when I was researching the scene and I got inspired by it. I take no credit for what Arya says it was all naomi-makes-art73 idea you should really check it out.
> 
> Did I bore you to death with all that dialogue?
> 
> Also I'm super scared that I took Jon too much out of character at then end, but I wanted to show the issues he is struggling with. Did you feel that it was too much? Should I dial it down?
> 
> How are you feeling about Sansa's way of dealing with Littlefinger?
> 
> Honestly I don't know what happened, this chapter was just a trainwreck, mostly because I think I have writer's block, nothing I wrote turned out good. The only part I like is the end when Jon and Sansa show each other their scars, and I wrote that months ago. Also that was one of the scenes I was super excited about.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones!
> 
> I am so, so sorry for the long wait! All I can say is that I have been suffering from the most terrible writers block.

A Wildling girl laughs happily as she runs along the trampled path made in the freshly fallen snow. The child's blue eyes shine with mirth as she spins around to look at the wolf that stalks quietly behind her. She is fearless as she watches it approach while those around her observe the scene with worried eyes.

"Willa!" Sansa – who is a few paces behind the wolf – calls to the child. "Do not-"

Her warning comes too late and Sansa winces as she watches Willa collide with a tall man, not having seen him as she had spun around to look at Sansa. She lands in the snow with a loud, "Oof!"

Sansa quickens her pace at the sound of Willa's sweet voice muttering crude curses. She holds out a hand to the child which Willa quickly takes, allowing herself to pulled back up onto her feet all while Sansa bites down on her lower lip, attempting to keep her laughter at bay but she does not quite manage to.

"I was going to say do not run so fast."

Willa rolls her eyes, huffing quietly before brushing snow off of herself and Sansa momentarily forgets her surroundings as she sees another child with grey eyes and unruly dark hair.

Someone clears their throat and the girl fades away.

"Oh, Lord Royce!" Sansa exclaims, looking up at the tall man Willa had happened to tumble into. "Please accept my apology for this small mishap."

The man in question laughs before shaking his head. "Do not worry about it, Lady Sansa." His eyes are kind as they take her in but when they land on Willa they darken.

Sansa smiles and rests a hand on Willa's shoulder. "You are very kind."

Willa stares up at the old man with a crease between her eyebrows before her eyes suddenly light up and she begins to bounce on the balls of her feet. "Are you Bronze Yohn?"

Lord Royce frowns down at the girl. "Yes," he says sternly. "What of it?"

Willa's eyes are wide with amazement as she gapes up at the bronze armour Lord Royce is clad in. "Is it true that you amour is magical?"

He blinks down at her surprised before catching himself. "The runes are for protection."

Willa's mouth falls open. "Really?!"

"Yes," he says, chuckling at her expression before placing one hand on one of the runes. "It has been in my family for a very long time, protecting us."

Willa spins around to look at Sansa, tugging at the sleeve of her cloak. "Did you hear that?" she asks excitedly much to the adults amusement. "It is true!"

Sansa smiles kindly. "I told you so, didn't I?" She looks up at Lord Royce. "Willa loves hearing stories about your House."

The Lord looks truly baffled for a moment. He gazes down at the Wildling girl but this time his eyes does not hold the same animosity. "I'm glad to hear you enjoy them."

Willa bites down on her lower lip and begins to jump from one foot to the other.

Lord Royce raises both of his bushy eyebrows at her. "Spit it out girl!"

"Can I... can I touch it?" she asks wide-eyed. "For luck."

He chuckles before kneeling down on one knee, taking one of Willa's hands with his own, resting it on his armour. Willa takes her hand away only to slip both of her gloves off before planting her hands on the armour, patting at as many runes she can manage.

"I think that is more than enough Willa," Sansa laughs.

The child pouts but she does remove her hands, bending down to retrieve her gloves before rushing off, shouting a, "Thank you!" over her shoulder.

Sansa shakes her head fondly before turning her attention back to the Lord who has gotten back onto his feet. "I apologise for her, she can be quite... blunt."

Lord Royce shakes his head, laughing heartily. "Do not worry about it, my lady. I must confess she is not what I had expected."

"No," Sansa agrees, "she is not." They both look at the child who is now playing in the snow with Ghost not far away. "Listen carefully," Sansa says, keeping her eyes on the girl. "I need you to ask me to join you for a stroll."

Lord Royce's eyebrows come together above his slate-grey eyes, but Sansa simply smiles at him as if she is biding him farewell. "Tomorrow."

Willa keeps playing in the snow as Sansa approaches her, fashioning herself snowballs that she has piled together by her side. "I'm going to use these on Arrec."

Sansa feeling sorry for the poor lad decides to avert the girl's attention. "Put that plan aside for now," she tells her. "Where is your sister?"

Willa shrugs, rolling another ball of snow between her hands.

"Well," Sansa begins, holding out her hand, "let's go find her. I have something for the both of you."

They find Johnna in the barracks that has been set up by the Bell Tower, where most of the Free Folk - that had remained behind at Winterfell - had decided to take up lodging. Johnna had been hard at work, helping the other women prepare a meal when they had found her, Sansa had recognised the old woman by her side as the one who she had spoken to all those months ago by the camp fire when sleep had not come to her.

"May I borrow Johnna for awhile?" she asks the woman... Ragna.

Ragna cocks her head to the side, watching her carefully with those sunken eyes of her. "Aye."

A deep frown begins to appear between Sansa's eyebrows as she watches Ragna chuck pieces of meat into the broth they keep over the fire. "There will be supper in the Great Hall later this evening," she tells the people gathered there before locking eyes with Ragna. "You are more than welcome to join us."

"We can look after ourselves."

"I do not doubt that," Sansa tells her, "but the offer still stands." She lets her eyes wander over all of them, some watch her with fascination, others with trepidation. "Winterfell is yours to come and go as you please. You helped retake its doors will always be open to you."

Sansa takes both of the girls with to her chamber where a table with lemon cakes has been prepared for them.

"What is this?" Willa asks, holding a lemon cake to her face for closer inspection.

"It is a treat," Sansa tells her, taking one for herself. "For the both you."

Johnna regards the cake warily before taking a sniff of it. "What is that smell?"

"Lemons," Sansa explains. "It's a fruit that grows on trees in the south." She takes the lemon – the very last lemon they have – placed by her plate, holding it up so that both girls can see it. "It is very bitter if eaten as it is." She hands it to Johnna who inspects it curiously. "But if you use it in cakes it will not be sour but sweet."

"It grows on trees?" Willa asks perplexed as Johnna hands her the lemon.

"That's right," Sansa says, " but it has to be warm for them to grow, that's why you will never find them here in the North." She takes a bite of her lemon cake, closing her eyes as she savours its sweetness. "Try them," she urges when both girls keep looking at their cakes skeptically.

Johnna is the first one to try it, setting an example for her younger sister. She nibbles carefully at the edge of the cake and then her eyes widen slowly with surprise. "It's.. it's..." she struggles with the sensation she has never experienced before and finally settles on taking another large bite before looking at Sansa. "It's good!"

Willa does not hesitate to bite down on her own. Much like her sister her eyes widen with surprise and then she takes another much larger bite. "'s sooo good!" she mumbles around a mouthful causing crumbles to fall onto her chin.

Sansa smiles. "I'm glad you like them." She rests her elbows on the table, leaning in closer to Willa who is seated to her left. "It is a thank you for what you did earlier today for me."

Willa's blue eyes light up with pride. "Did I do good?"

Sansa reaches out with one hand to stroke Willa's unruly hair. "You did very good."

Johnna looks at the both of them with a confused expression. "What did she do?" There is an underlying tone of dismay in the young girl's voice, a fear of her sister being put in a compromising position.

"Willa did me a favour," Sansa explains, "but do not worry. I would never put her in harms way."

Willa nods in agreement. "I just had to run into a man," she says, shrugging her shoulders before licking at the top of her cake.

Johnna's expression softens. "Oh."

"Johnna," Sansa says, looking into the girl's eyes. "It is very important that no one finds out that it was I who told Willa what to do, do you understand?"

Johnna looks from Sansa to her sister and then back to Sansa. "Aye."

* * *

"We need to be more careful."

Jon looks up from the old scrolls of parchment and books they had taken from the library in hope of finding more information about the Others. "What?" he asks, blinking his bleary eyes at her.

Had what Sansa is about to say not have been so serious she might have laughed at his confused but yet endearing expression. "We need to be more careful with what we do and say to each other."

He closes the book he had been reading. "For what reason?"

Sansa follows his lead, putting the parchment she has spread out before her on his bed onto the floor. "We are being watched."

Jon's dark eyebrows knit together at her words. "Littlefinger?"

"Yes." She glances at the latched door. "He has spies."

Jon pushes himself out of the chair and makes his way to the hearth where he places another log in the fire. "I am tired of this, Sansa."

Her eyes are soft but her smile is sad. "I know."

Jon does not reply instead he keeps his gaze on the dancing flames which are reflected in his eyes. He can feel the heat coming from it on his face, turning his cheeks red and prickling his skin and making his body shiver at the nice sensation of it, but he knows that if he does not pull away soon it will grow uncomfortable, even painful.

"Jon?" Sansa says pulling him back from the enchantment the flames has cast over him.

He blinks, scooting back slightly. "What is it?"

The fabric of her dress rustles as she gets off of the bed to join him. "I need to ask you something," she whispers.

The hesitation in her voice gains his attention and he shifts his eyes to look at her as she sits down crossed-legged opposite him with her knees brushing against his. "Go on."

She glances briefly at the door as if she is afraid that someone is outside... listening in on their conversation, it has Jon frowning wondering if people might know what they speak of when they believe they are alone.

"I was never going to tell you this," she begins and her blue eyes shine with an unsaid apology. "But.." she continues, smiling at him, "that has changed, and I promise you that once it is all over I will explain it all to you."

Jon keeps quiet sensing that it is important for him to let her speak.

"Know that I am not doing this out of spite but," she takes his uninjured hand in hers, "I cannot tell you what it is I know, not yet. I have to protect us."

He does not release her hand as he whispers, "Why are you speaking of it now if you can't tell what it is about?"

Sansa's grip tightens and he finds himself rubbing his thumb in a circular motion over her skin. "Because," she whispers anguished, "because I do not want you to hate me."

"I could never hate you Sansa."

"You might," she insists, looking at him with terrified eyes, "when you find out what I have been keeping from you."

Jon cannot for the life of him think of anything she could say or do that would evoke such feelings. "Is it for our safety?"

She nods, keeping her eyes on his.

"It will not be the same as with the Knights of the Vale?"

She shakes her head. "No, no."

"Well then," he says, smiling in an attempt to lift her spirit, "I trust you."

"Jon," her voice is full of desperation as she clutches at his hand, "you have to remember that when I do tell you it was not because I didn't trust you." She looks down at their entwined hands. "I do trust you, it is just that for now the truth will do you no good... it will only endanger you."

"What about you? Won't it endanger you?"

She sighs, shaking her head. "No..."

Something in his eyes change. "It has to do with Littlefinger doesn't it?"

"Part of it yes." She straightens her shoulders, looking him dead in they eye. "But I  _can_ handle him. The truth can't harm me but it can harm you."

He is silent for a long time, studying her face carefully to the point that it almost makes her uncomfortable but she does not look away. "Well then," he finally says, giving her a weak smile. "I trust you, I do."

She laughs shakily. "You are too good for this life, Jon."

He shakes his head causing his hair - that he has allowed to fall freely - to fly around his face while his lips curve into a smile. "How is your shoulder?"

She lifts her injured shoulder, rolling it experimentally, grimacing as she does. "It's getting better."

"Can I have a look at it?" Jon asks, worried that the wound might not be healing as well as he wishes for it to.

Sansa does not hesitate as she nods to him, beginning to undo the leather buckles that holds her thick light blue wool kirtle together. "It might need to be redressed," she mumbles, allowing her kirtle and chemise to fall down her shoulders onto the floor.

"Aye," Jon agrees, averting his eyes and getting onto his feet in order to fetch a new cloth for her wound from one of the drawers by the bed.

By the time he turns back around Sansa has laid out on the bear pelt he keeps next to the hearth with her naked back to him. He approaches her slowly, taking care to be loud to not startle her, afraid that he might trigger memories if he is too abrupt.

"Is it true," he attempts to keep his voice normal, for it not to drop into a whisper or grow to low, "that Ghost attacked Littlefinger?"

And just like that Sansa's body relaxes underneath his touch. "Yes," she replies with a tinge of laughter to her voice.

Jon smiles as he peels away the old silk cloth he had swathed her wound with. "He really does deserve a roast then."

"He deserves more than one." Sansa closes her eyes and bites down on her tongue to prevent a hiss from escaping as Jon cleans the wound.

"I wish I could have seen it," Jon chuckles, imagining the always so well composed Lord Baelish trembling with fear.

"It was quite glorious," Sansa whispers causing Jon to laugh.

"All done," he tells her, carefully trailing two fingers down her spine.

She shivers at his touch but not from fear or revulsion. "Thank you."

His hand falls away. "I'll let you get dressed."

Sansa slips her chemise back on before lying back down, resting her cheek against the soft fur. "You can look now."

"Are you falling asleep?" Jon asks amused as he watches her eyes flutter closed, the only reply he receives is a low hum. "It does not look all that comfortable."

Sansa's hair falls down her back as she shakes her head. "It is," she insists sleepily. "You should try it."

Jon shakes his head fondly at her but then he decides to join her. He rests his chin on his hands as he lies down next to her, staring into the flames.

"Who was she?" Sansa suddenly asks, drawing his attention back to her but she keeps her eyes on the fire, watching the flames dance.

The silence between them is thick as he follows her gaze, watching the flames twist and flicker, shimmering in different shades of red, orange and gold...  _kissed by fire_. "Ygritte. Her name was Ygritte."

Sansa watches as one log cracks in the middle causing the whole fire to crackle. "What was she like?" She has heard whispers about her, whispers about a Wildling girl that had stolen his heart. Those whispers had been followed by a heartbreaking tale but when she had inquired about it no one had been willing to offer more details.

Jon continues to watch the fire intensely as he ponders the question. "Beautiful," he says and she had been but that is not what he means. Her bravery, her determination, everything about her had made her beautiful but he does not know if he wishes to share that.

Sansa nods and does not expect him to say anything else but the small chuckle that escapes him has her turning her head to look at him curiously.

"She was funny as well." He shakes his head affectionately before tilting it to the side to look at her. She gives him an encouraging smile but his own one fades away as his eyes fall onto her hair that shimmers brightly in the firelight. "And brave... and I loved her."

"You're lucky," she tells him. "To have had her," she clarifies when he looks at her confused. "It is better to have loved someone than to not have loved anyone at all."

He bows his head. "I suppose," he mutters while his mind swims with her words and what they truly mean.

Sansa attempts to stifle a yawn before mumbling a tired goodnight.

Jon reaches out with his scarred hand, taking her dainty one in his, tracing his thumb along the back of it. Sansa can barely feel the feather light touch as she drifts off into nothingness. "Goodnight."

* * *

The morning air is crisp and prickles at the skin, turning it red while it coats ones hair white and leaves ones mouth in a breath of smoke, Sansa relishes in it. When she had been young – before King's Landing, before all the heartache – she had not minded the cold but she had never found comfort in it they way she does now.

The snow crunch quietly underneath her boots and the boots of her tall companion as they stroll through the lichyard.

"Is there a particular reason as to why you have brought me here, my lady?" Yohn Royce asks, looking down at her curiously.

A small smile play on Sansa's lips as she looks around the lichyard. "You are very observant, my lord."

The old man chuckles, causing the lines around his eyes to crinkle. "I would hope so."

"Come," Sansa says, leading him away from the First Keep. "The walls may have ears."

Lord Royce's bushy eyebrows come together above his eyes as he studies her with newfound interest. "Is there something you fear, my lady?"

Sansa's grey cloak whispers against the snow as she turns around to face him, watching Ghost stalk quietly around the First Keep, sniffing the air. She holds her tongue until the wolf turns his head dismissively.

"I..." she begins quietly, wringing her hands worriedly, "I fear for the alliance between the Vale and the North."

Her companion gives a small nod as if he has been anticipating her speech. "For what reason?"

Sansa's words leaves her lips in a cloud of smoke and she tilts her head, locking her gaze with Lord Royce's. "My cousin Lord Robin Arryn he is young... he has lost both his father and mother at such a tender age, when you most need guidance." She pauses, allowing her eyes to show the pain she had felt once the news of her mother's and Robb's deaths had reached her. "I have been put in that position myself... I know that men will seize the opportunity of power by using those such as my cousin, who are not yet ready to shoulder such responsibility."

She sees him mull over the things she has left unsaid and sees him come to the conclusion she has laid out befor him.

"Were you exposed to such corruption during your time in the Vale?" he asks gruffly.

Sansa does not hesitate. "Yes."

One of Lord Royce's large and gnarled hands comes to rest at the hilt of his sword. "This puts us in a difficult position... with the North closing itself off from the south the fate of the Vale is uncertain."

"Yes," Sansa agrees. "Do you have men you trust? Men whom are still in the Vale?"

Sansa recognises the glint that suddenly sparks in his eyes, it is one she has seen in many eyes, a hunger... a hunger for power. "Yes."

She nods and holds out her hand, silently biding him to walk with her. "There is a young man named Arrec Altin, you can find him working in the Rookey. You can trust him if you ever feel the need to send a message."

Lord Royce does not falter, keeping the illusion of the stroll alive as he looks up at the First Keep while whispering a quiet, "Thank you," out of the corner of his mouth.

Sansa points at one of the gargoyles that adorns the the old building. "My brother Bran he used to swing from those." She smiles at the older man. "He loved to climb."

Lord Royce nods, watching her with her with a new perspective. "Yes, I heard about to the poor lad."

Sansa glances up building again, pointing at one of the windows. "I dare not be seen too often with you..."

"Lord Templeton..." Royce murmurs before clearing his throat, "you can get word to me through him."

Sansa sees Ghost watching them from the side of the First Keep, she taps her hand against her thigh. "Ghost to me!"

The lord stiffens as the wolf approaches and Sansa takes note of the sheen layer of moisture that has begun to gather along his brow, but he does not flinch or step back as Ghost slides past him, coming to a halt in front of Sansa.

She smiles, trailing one hand down Ghost's neck. "This is Ghost, Jon's wolf."

"A magnificent beast in its own right, my lady," Lord Royce says with the barest hint of a quiver.

Sansa continues to run her hand through the wolf's fur, pointing at his eyes with her other hand, keeping a charade. "I will try to gain valuable information for you."

* * *

Sansa waits eagerly for Jon's return. He had ridden out early that morning when a purple hue had painted the dark sky, bringing with it the yellow of the sun's rays that would soon become a distant memory. He had taken a dozen men with him, riding out to small villages and farms with the intent of relocating them to Winter Town or other strongholds that would provide more safety against the Night King.

They have yet to return by supper which is when when worry begins to take over Sansa. It clutches at her chest, twisting its cold hands around her lungs, making it impossible for her to get anything past her lips.

"Are you unwell my lady?" Ser Davos asks.

Sansa prods at the meat laid out on a plate before her with her knife. "He should have taken Ghost with him." She closes her eyes briefly and when she opens them again she finds him looking at her with sympathy.

"Do not worry about His Grace. He will be back soon," he assures but Sansa finds no comfort in his words.

It is with reluctance heart that Sansa allows her feet to carry her to her chamber, where she sits by the window with candles lit around her as she works her thread and needle through one of Jon's old jerkins that had been in a desperate need of mending.

The moon is high on the sky when she lays the mended jerkin aside to peer outside the window that looks out over the empty courtyard. She lifts one hand, allowing it to rest against the cool glass as she stares down at the ground below with a solemn expression. It is to the stillness of the night that Sansa turns her back on her own reflection and blows out the candles before crawling into bed, hiding herself away underneath the furs.

* * *

Laughter, cold, cruel, maniacal laughter. It is loud almost louder than her screams and the more she screams, the more she cries the more he laughs. The blade is cool against her skin as he whispers something but what it is she does not know, she feels it follow the curve of her shoulder, caressing it.

_"My darling wife."_

The blade cuts through the skin, numbing it at first and she cannot feel anything but his heavy weight against her back then the burning begins as he carves into the skin, whispering excitedly about his masterful work as he cuts her back the way an artist paints a canvas.

Her toes curl and her legs shake underneath him, she bites down on the pillow, tasting feathers. The blade slashes downwards, she screams and screams until her throat burns just as much as her back and until darkness fills her vision, granting her escape but the laughter remains...

Sansa wakes to her own cry for help and to furious pounding on her door. Each bang has her flinching, pressing herself against the bed while her body trembles uncontrollably.

"Lady Stark!" a male voice cries from the other side of the door. "My lady are you well?" Sansa's face twists into an ugly grimace as a silent sob escapes her. "My lady open the door!"

She shakes her head, glancing down with wide eyes at her trembling hands, marveling at the pain she feels with each tremor.

"I'm going to break down the door!"

It is to the sight of the dying embers in the hearth and the increasing cries about her well-being that Sansa begins to come back to herself. Her breaths are ragged as she listens to the commotion outside the door which then slowly dies down, being replaced by a soft murmuring and then the sound of retreating footsteps.

Sansa's body begins to relax but the sound of a key being inserted into the lock has all of her muscles tensing, no one has a key but  _him..._ She bites down on her lower lip, drawing blood as one single tear slides down her pale cheek and onto her chin. She rolls over onto her side at the sound of the lock clicking, facing away from the door.

He enters the room quietly and locks the door behind him, leaving them in darkness but for the lantern he carries. Sansa closes her eyes but she does not manage to keep the illusion of sleep alive as her breath hitches at the sound of him setting down the lantern on the table.

His boots scrape against the stone floor as he approaches the bed. Sansa twists her hands around the furs. She thinks she might fight him this time... but the throbbing pain in her shoulder stops her and Theon's words echo in her mind,  _"Do what he says. It can, it can always be worse."_

"Sansa."

He grips her shoulder with surprising gentleness but that if anything only makes it worse and she stiffens, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, afraid of the pain she knows will follow, silently thankful that it is her uninjured shoulder he holds.

"Sansa."

She bites down on her tongue.  _Keep still, just keep still. You will only make it worse if you move._

"Sansa look at me."

She will not. The darkness behind her eyelids is her salvation.

A hand strokes through her hair, she waits for it to clench around the waves, waits for it to yank her head back.

"Sansa, I am not going to hurt you."  _Lies._

The hand draws back and she can hear the soft thump of clothing falling to the floor, it makes her want to weep.

"Sansa you need to wake up." She does not want to wake up, she wants to drown in the darkness.

The bedding underneath her shifts causing her to fall back against his chest as he lies down next to her. Strong arms wound themselves around her, she pushes her face into the pillow and lets out a small pitiful whimper.

"Shh," his breath is warm against her ear while one of his hands travels along the naked skin of her arm to one of her hands that clutch at the fur. He forces her to release her grip on it, twining his fingers with hers but she refuses to lace them, allowing her hand to grow limp.

"Sansa," it is a whispered plea, "listen to my voice. You know me.  _You know me._ "

Yes, she knows him. She knows what he will do, she knows the pain he will inflict on her until the early hours of the morning, that is why she keeps her eyes closed and keeps her face pressed into the pillow, refusing to give him what he wants. But somehow during the coming hours as he whispers word after meaningless word to her until his voice grows hoarse, she begins to wonder if she does know him.

It is how he holds her hand that peeks her curiosity, he swirls his his thumb around and around in circles against the back of it. The sensation of his skin against hers is wrong, she knows the way his hard body feel against hers, she knows the feeling of his weight pressing her into the bed – not pulling her against him – and she knows how his smooth hands feel against her skin before they tightening around her flesh. The hand holding hers does not feel like his, it is calloused, uneven and rough in some places as if... as if the skin had been burnt.

"J-jon?"

His free hand tugs at her waist, urging her to turn around to which she complies and once she is settled against his warm chest – feeling it rise and fall with each breath – she opens her eyes to find Jon looking down at her with kind eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I couldn't think of what else to do."

Sansa's lips part as if she is about to say something but the words escape her and instead she finds herself pressing her face against his doublet, breathing in the mixed scent of leather, smoke and snow that is mingled with sweat, a scent she has come to associate with him and only him.

"I thought it was getting better," she finally whispers and she feels Jon's lips brush against her temple.

He strokes a hand through her hair before resting his chin on top of her head. "I can be fine for days," he tells her, watching as the shadows on the wall dance in the light of the lantern, "but then when I grow worried over something they come back."

Sansa presses her cheek against his chest, frowning as she comes to the realisation that he is right. She had been worrying about him, afraid that something might have happened, afraid that he might not come back. It is not a comforting thought to know what triggers the dreams, the world they live in is full of worry, it is not something either of them can escape.

"Sansa," Jon says, bringing her out of her musings. She hums quietly in response and she can feel his chin move against her head as he parts his lips. "I've never seen you like that before..."

"The key," she mumbles against his doublet. "It was the key."

Jon chuckles darkly. "It was a bad idea then."

The intention behind the key had been for both of them to find solace in the knowledge that the other had a key to their chamber, and with said key they would be able to vanquish the other's ghosts. It was supposed to keep them at bay, not open the door for them.

Jon's hold on Sansa loosens as she pulls back, tilting her head so that she can look into his eyes. "Better you with a key than the guard breaking down the door," she tries to jest but the smile does not reach her eyes and Jon finds no amusement in it.

"Perhaps you should have it," he says thoughtfully but she shakes her head at him.

"No," she slips back into his embrace. "I want you to have it."

He toys with the ends of her hair absentmindedly while she rests her ear above his heart, listening to the steady thump thump of its beat. "I do not want to make it any worse for you," he says eventually. "If the sound of the key have such an effect it might be better for me not to use it."

Sansa's hair slips out of his hold when she shakes her head. "You are not making anything worse, Jon. You're what helps me."

He does not seem entirely convinced but he allows the subject to drop. "You should go back to sleep."

Sansa stifles a yawn. "Soon but first tell me how it went today."

Jon sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "The northerns are stubborn. They won't believe in what I have to say and I doubt that some of them would leave their homes even if they knew my words to be true."

Sansa feels a deep sympathy for Jon. All he has ever wanted to do is create a better world, he values other peoples well being over his own and though it can be a blessing it is also a curse that is a heavy burden to carry. Most men and women would not dwell too long on those who decide to doom themselves, justifying that they have done what is required of them. But Jon is not like most men, he carries each of those people with him, never forgetting them, always thinking of the what ifs.

"We will keep trying," she promises him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far my worst chapter but I am trying really hard to break free of my writers block.  
> Thank you so much to all of you that are still with this story and taking your time to read it!
> 
> Sidenote: Some of you might feel like I am over doing the whole nightmare thing but I just want to point out that in all honesty it is not overdone. I used to (and still do at times) suffer from night terrors, and if you have them they happen frequently, I am not lying when I'm saying I had them every night for weeks at a time. So my reason for including the nightmares in almost every chapter is a way for me to stay realistic, because I know that it is not something that just goes away after awhile it takes a long time.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones! The first part of this is inspired by Jon's chapter in A Clash of Kings (p. 762. Paperback edition) some sentences are taken directly from it and I take no credit from that whatsoever.
> 
> Hi! So long time no see... I really hope that some of you are still with me and willing to continue reading this despite the absences in updates. I won't be going into any details but my life just got in the way with having ill family members that had to undergo surgery and I am also still suffering from writers block which is why this story has been abandon for awhile.
> 
> HATE REVIEWS: I've been struggling (and still am) from a massive writer's block and then on ff.net I received a review on my story Regrets from a person that I found quite rude and long story short I replied "Your point being?" I received an angry pm from her and then a minute after that several of my stories began receiving hate reviews from anonymous Guests, that obviously are the same person.
> 
> The reason I am telling you this is because I decided to post this chapter earlier than intended (which is why it is shorter than usual) because I don't want this person's actions to affect my writing, I think they are pathetic and I don't really care about their opinion but I just feel like that if I post this chapter now it will help me get over this writers block and take my focus of off all of the hate.
> 
> IMPORTANT: I've been rewriting the previous chapters, it is nothing major so there is no need for anyone to reread them (unless you want to). I've mostly just tweaked a few things, but I have not added or removed any scenes. The biggest reason for me to do this was so that it would be easier for me to get back into the story.
> 
> I have also decided to follow the book when it comes to Harrion and Arnolf Karstark, I believe they were loosely combined into one character on the show, Harald Karstark, but I prefer the books when it comes to this so there is no Harald.
> 
> ANOTHER IMPORTANT thing is that Yohn Royce daughter Ysilla is not married in this.
> 
> Ahh, I'm really really nervous that no one will read this since it's been so long or that you won't like it...

Jon dreams of direwolves, scattered across a white landscape. He knows that there are three missing, two that are lost forever. He feels a deep longing as he watches the wolves, so far apart and alone but for the first time in years there is hope building up inside of him as he watches the golden eyed wolf approach from the south while the yellow eyed one silently stalks its way towards him form the north.

The ground smells of fresh snow as he moves silently through the trees, underneath the new layer of snow is the faint scents of people that had come and gone through the sacred place. He bares his teeth at the sweet minty scent that penetrates his senses.

_Jon?_

It is a soft whisper, like a leaf rustling on the wind.

He turns, looking for his brother, searching for the yellow eyes lurking behind a tree but all he finds is a sapling of a weirwood tree...

It grows rapidly before his eyes, extending its ever thickening branches above him until they reach towards the sky. He circles the wide trunk warily before coming to a halt in front of the face that has been carved into it.

Red eyes look down at him, there is grievance in their wise depths but also a joy at seeing him. Had his brother always had three eyes?

 _Not always,_ the face replies softly, and the tree's red leaves sway on the wind.  _Not before the raven._

He moves closer to the tree, pressing his snout against the trunk, smelling wolf, tree and boy but underneath it all are more sinister scents, scents that has him recoiling.

The tree's face twist into a sad smile.  _Don't be afraid_ , it whispers.  _The dark is nothing to fear, no one can see you but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes._ One of the tree's branches reaches down, touching him with surprising gentleness.

Suddenly he is on a field, watching as a man clad in black and red with silver hair rides past the spectators to place a crown of blue winter roses in the lap of a brunette beauty that looks at him in surprise through dark steely grey eyes while the spectators shake their heads disapprovingly and others gasp in disbelief.

He stands on the edge of a mountain overoooking a single red tower located between a valley of hills. A woman's cry tears through the silence and then he is inside a room that smells of blood and roses. The same woman from the tournament lies on a bed that has dead and black rose petals scattered out on sheets that are tainted red by blood.

"Promise me," she whispers, clutching at his father's hand with her pale one. "Promise me, Ned."

He thinks he hears her whisper a name on her dying breath as black petals spill from her palm and a child is placed in the arms of his father.

Then he is back at Winterfell, standing by the entrance to the Crypts where the old Kings of Winter are waiting for him.

 _Don't fear the dark,_  his brother whispers.

* * *

Sansa finds Jon by the entrance to the Crypts - early in the morning when darkness still clings to the sky - on the day of his departure for the Mountain Clans. The torch he holds casts flickering shadows across the ironwood door, and she catches the glimmer of fear that crosses over Jon's face.

"Jon," she calls softly, alerting him of her presence.

He turns around slowly, almost as if he is reluctant to turn his back on the door.

"What are you doing?" She asks, lowering her own torch.

A deep crease appears between Jon's eyebrows as he peers back at the door. "I had a dream..."

Sansa's cloak trails in the snow behind her as she moves closer to him. "A dream?"

Jon nods, looking back at her with eyes full of fear that are silently pleading with her, asking for something neither is certain of what it is.

Sansa lowers her torch and snuffs it out in the snow by her feet, she leaves it there and is just about to take Jon in her arms when she hesitates, teetering on soles of her feet. A flash of pain crosses her face as she scan their dark surroundings before stepping up to him, making sure to keep a distance between them.

"What was it about?" Her blue eyes are calming in the light of the flickering flame, comforting in the same way her embrace would have been.

Jon squeezes his eyes shut and his gloved hand tightens around the torch as he hears the woman whisper,  _Promise me._  "I don't know." He opens his eyes looking between Sansa and the door. "Bran was in it... I think... I think he wanted me to go down there."

Sansa's hair spills down her back as she tilts her head to the side to look at the door. "Do you want to?" she asks, remembering his hesitation the last time she had asked.

Jon sucks in a deep breath before releasing it in a cloud of smoke. "I feel like I have to."

Sansa gives him one long considering look before stepping forward, she is just about to shove the slanted door open with her shoulder when Jon stops her.

"Wait!"

She brushes away a stray tendril of hair from her face as she looks at him. "I'll come with you."

Jon shakes his head and takes a step back as he sees something she cannot. "Not yet," he whispers and there is a slight quaver to his voice. "Not yet."

"Okay," Sansa says as she steps away from the door. "You don't have to do it now."

He digs his free hand into his hair, tugging at his waves as he face twists with emotion. "I'm sorry," he says but Sansa does not know if it is meant for her or someone else.

* * *

Jon departs with a select group of men when the sky has brightened, just as Lord Manderly sets off on his own journey back to White Harbour to prepare the stronghold for the small folk they had been able to convince to move further south.

It was Jon who had suggested they contact the Mountain Clans, given the loyalty they had had for their Father. Sansa had wanted to go with him to meet them, but her wish had been overruled by Jon and his counsellors, she was needed at Winterfell. Which is why Sansa finds herself atop the balcony looking down at the courtyard as the company departs through the East Gate. Snowflakes dance around Jon's face as he turns on his steed, searching her out before raising one hand in a gesture of goodbye before the gate closes behind him.

"You've got him eating out of the palm of your hand," a sly voice says from somewhere behind her.

Sansa lowers her hand, clasping it with her other one in front of her as she looks at the newly repaired gate. "Were that the case I would be a part of the party."

Littlefinger steps forward and leans his back against the wooden railing, watching her face carefully. "You're not on a horse next to him because he  _cares_ for you."

Sansa's lips twitch. "He cares for me because he has to, I am the only family he has got left."

The railing creaks as Littlefinger shifts his weight, tilting his body closer to hers. "You said it yourself, you are kin."

Sansa's eyes are far away as she takes hold of the railing and peers down at the training yard where she had seen Jon and Arya train at swordplay countless times when they were younger. "Sometimes I wonder what things would have been like if it had been Arya that arrived at Castle Black instead of me..."

"Winterfell would be in rubbles," Littlefinger answers and Sansa thinks it is the second time she has ever heard him speak truthfully.

* * *

Sansa invites Yohn Royce to dine with her that evening, while Davos sits on her other side, conversing quietly with Lyanna Mormont.

She smiles at the old lord throughout the evening, taking care to seem engrossed in their conversation while she secretly keeps an eye on Littlefinger as he quietly observes the two of them from his place further down the Great Hall.

"I cannot be too forward," Sansa says as she reaches for a pitcher of wine, refilling Lord Royce goblet, "he will suspect something if I am."

Lord Royce raises the goblet to his lips, and his grey eyes glimmer with what some might mistake for intoxication. "I understand."

Sansa smiles and tilts her head back, laughing as if he had said something to amuse her. "Be careful in whom you put your trust," she says leaning forward. "He will have spies, they might even have infiltrated your  _group._ "

The lord's eyes darken slightly but he keeps the smile on his face as he tears a piece of bread off with his fingers from a loaf and pops it into his mouth. "I have not shared any information of your involvement to the others."

Sansa's braid falls over her shoulder as she nods. "Good." From the corner of her eye she sees a young serving girl approach with a pitcher of ale. "And what about your daughter, my lord? Is she married yet?"

Lord Royce does not bat an eye at the change of conversation. "No, my lady, not yet."

Sansa hums, keeping an eye on the girl as she makes her way along the table towards them. "Surely she must have many suitors? I have been told that she is a great beauty." The girl is hovering by Davos side, filling his goblet to the brim, but she keeps glancing over in their direction ever so often. "How old is your daughter?"

"She is on her seventeenth name day."

"More ale, my lady?"

Sansa looks up at the dark haired girl. She is young, younger than Arya and Sansa cannot help but wonder where Littlefinger has found her, there had been a slight southern lilt to her accent as she had spoken to them. "No, thank you."

The girl curtsies but keeps hovering nearby.

"Has your son found himself a wife yet, my lord?"

The lord tilts his head to the side, regarding her with contemplative eyes. "No."

Sansa swirls the wine around in her goblet before raising it to her lips, smiling coyly down into it.

* * *

That night is a cloudy one and the temperature rises considerably to where it is pleasant to be outside, some of the the younger men from the Vale look up at the sky in amazement, murmuring to each other about how the winter may not be so harsh, but to the northerners the warmth has brought with it an extra burden to carry as they mutter to each other about the calm before the storm.

Sansa decides to relish in the weather despite the troubling news it brings, and so she wanders through the empty courtyards when the rest of the castle sleeps. Her feet take her past the lichyard and she stops momentarily as the door to the crypts comes into view. She thinks of going down there to see Rickon... but to see him she will have to pass her father's and Robb's empty tombs.

 _Lyanna was my sister,_  her father had told his children the one time they had dared to ask about her.  _This is where she belongs._ His sombre eyes had passed over each child's face until they settled on Jon.

 _This is where Father and Robb belongs_ , Sansa thinks as a soft gust of wind catches at her unbound hair,  _not rotting away in an unmarked grave in the south._

The wind catches at the snow on the ground, tossing it into air where it spins around before moving away from her, making its way towards the godswood. Sansa follows behind it watching with fascination as more snow gets caught up in it, and she cannot help but to be captivated by the way the snowflakes dances around on the wind and if she tilts her head just so and squints her eyes it almost look like a figure – a child – walking in front of her.

The sentinels loom imposingly over them as they make their way through the godswood, and the shadows the trees cast almost drown out the light Sansa's torch casts onto the path before her, but Sansa feels no fear if anything a calm had descended upon her once she had entered the ancient forest.

The snow in front of her ascends once they reach the heart tree, the branches creak and the leaves sigh as it passes through them before dissolving, leaving Sansa alone before the melancholy face. The light of Sansa's torch reflects in her blue eyes like dancing flames, she reaches out with her gloved hand and places it against the white trunk.

She thinks she hears whispers, faint ones of hundreds... no thousands voices; men, women, children and then something... something that is not quite human. They whisper of things that has long come to pass, they whisper of a man with burning sword, of vast caverns cloaked in darkness and of dragons come again.

"Sansa."

Her eyes flutter open slowly only to find the weirwood's hollow eyes staring back at her. Her hand slips down its white trunk before finally coming to hang limply at her side as she slowly turns around to face Littlefinger.

"Petyr," she says when the light of her torch falls upon his dark clad figure.

He stands a few steps away from her, halfway cloaked in darkness, watching her with a concerned expression. "Are you unwell?" The shadows seem to cling to him as he moves, coiling around his feet.

Sansa's eyebrows knit together and she peers over her shoulder at the tree. "I couldn't sleep..."

Littlefinger's voice is nothing more but a soft murmur as he slowly approaches her. "I imagine it is difficult for you..." his eyes flicker from her face to the torch she grips tightly in her hand. "All our fears manifest themselves at night."

Sansa clenches her teeth, resting her gaze on a branch to Littlefinger's right.

He is close enough for her to smell the mint on his breath as he raises one hand to caress her cheek, and Sansa lets him.

"But the night can only last for so long, my love," he tells her, wiping away the tear that had stubbornly escaped.

She shifts her eyes to his and in them he can see the silent anguish she has been trying so hard to conceal from them all. His gaze softens and his thumb gently caresses her cheek. "It is impossible to be made entirely out of steel, Sansa."

Another tear escapes past down Sansa's cheek and soon it is followed by another and then another one until her cheeks are wet. Her hands tremble causing the torch to slip out of her hold onto the snow – where it slowly goes out, just as her legs gives out from underneath her and she falls onto the snow with her grey cloak pooling out around her as a wretched sob escapes past her lips.

Littlefinger follows her down, wrapping her up in his arms while cooing reassuringly in her ear. "Shh, my sweet, everything is going to be fine, shhh." He pulls her to him but Sansa remains unresponsive, crying silently while he rocks them side to side.

Minutes pass by with neither of them moving except for Littlefinger's rocking and then Sansa finally parts her lips with a hitched breath, turning her face into his shoulder. "I can't... I can't," she hiccough, "not again."

"You won't," Littlefinger says in a voice that has suddenly gone hard. "You won't have to marry Andar Royce."

He does not see the way Sansa smiles against his shoulder.

* * *

Sansa had awoken a poor servant girl the moment she had come back to the Great Keep, who had stared at her bewildered as Sansa demanded a bath be drawn for her immediately.

She strips herself of all her clothes but for her slip as two servant girls ready the bath.

"You may leave," she tells them once the bath stands steaming in the middle of her chamber, smelling faintly of the herbs that had been mixed into the water. The girls curtsy before scurrying out of the door with exhausted expressions on their faces.

The water is almost unbearably warm as Sansa slides one leg into it. She has to stop for a moment, forcing her skin to grow accustomed to the heat before stepping into the bath with the other one. She sucks in a deep breath before slipping down into it, tensing as the warm water burns at her skin but it does not take long for the slight pain to ebb and for her body to grow accustomed to the heat. She closes her eyes, drawing in one deep breath before she allows the water close over her head. She stays underneath the surface until her lungs begin to burn, screaming for oxygen and it is only when she cannot take it any more that she sits back up, drinking in fresh air.

She reaches for the cloth that has been hung over the side of the bath, and dips it into the water before bringing it to her face where she furiously begins to scrub at her skin. She scrubs where Littlefinger's hand had been, pressing the cloth forcefully against her cheek where she can still feel his thumb stroking up and down. Then she slips the cloth into the water before wringing it out and then brings it back to her face, scrubbing harder than before. She scrubs until her face is red and raw, and it is only when she actually draws blood that she stops. The cloth slips from her fingers into the water as she peers out the window at the dark sky, wishing for dawn to come.

When dawn finally does come it is with the sound of a horn being blown, announcing the presence of new arrivals. For a moment Sansa's heart lurches in her chest as she grips onto the railing of the balcony above the courtyard,  _Jon._

But when the Gate finally is opened it is not Jon she sees astride a horse but three people... one is immensely tall with short light blond hair and next to her on his own horse sits a tired looking Podrick Payne but it is the person just behind them that catches Sansa's attention. Wisps of brown hair peek out from underneath the hood of a dark worn cloak, and suddenly Sansa knows what Jon must have felt when he first saw her dismount at Castle Black. She does not hesitate as she flings herself down the steps that leads down to the courtyard.

A pair of grey eyes glimmer underneath the hood as the person dismounts their horse with ease, Sansa is almost by them when Brienne turns her head and sees her fast approaching figure.

"Lady Sansa," she calls and there is something in her voice that makes Sansa hesitate. "Allow me to introduce lady Alys Karstark."

The cloaked figure removes her hood to reveal a long face, framed by strands of brown hair that has escaped its braid. "Lady Stark."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones! There will be a second disclaimer at the end of this chapter.
> 
> I am still suffering from writers block. I just feel like my writing is terrible and it is really something I am struggling to get past, although this chapter was a lot easier to write than the previous one, and I am actually excited for the next one!

"Alys Karstark," Sansa says coolly, regarding the older girl from her seat at the High Table.

The tall brunette straightens her back, looking up at Sansa through grey almond shaped eyes – a trait of the Starks, though this girl's eyes has more blue in them than the steely grey Jon and Arya share. "Lady Stark."

"We had expected you sooner," Sansa tells her but Alys does not bat an eye.

"I must confess I was not at Karhold when your summons reached me."

Sansa rests her arms on the chairs armrest, leaning to her left as she does so. "I would have expected the future heir to be at their stronghold."

Alys juts her chin out and takes a step forward. "I had fled from Karhold before the battle, my lady."

This peeks Sansa's interest and she shifts forward in her seat. "Why did you feel the need to do so?"

Alys looks around the hall at the men and women gathered there – many of whom she has grown up with. "There is no secret that my uncle Arnolf Karstark was a cruel man who lusted for power... I was in his way. My uncle intended to marry me off to his son Cregan Karstark and once I had given him a son they would have me join my Father." Alys looks back at Sansa and there is something in those pale grey eyes – a boldness. "I believe you can relate to this, Lady Stark."

Sansa glances to her right where she finds Littlefinger lurking in the shadows with smile playing on his lips. "I am afraid I am not the one that can decide your fate, Lady Karstark."

Alys nods and her voice is full of understanding as she speaks but her eyes remain hard, "No, that would be the King's decision." She looks around as if expecting Jon to materialize before their eyes. "Where is the King?"

"He is away at the moment," Sansa tells her before leaning back in her chair. "I'll have a room prepared for you in the Guest House."

Alys gives a curt nod before turning around while Sansa catches Brienne's eye, giving the older woman a look that has her approaching.

"My Lady," Brienne says, inclining her head.

Sansa holds out a hand at the empty chair next to her. "Sit, Brienne."

Brienne does as she is bid and takes the empty seat, turning her body so that she is facing Sansa while still being able to keep an eye on those in the hall. "How are things?" she asks in a voice that carries an underlying sense of worry.

"Manageable," Sansa replies, locking her gaze with Littlefinger's. He smiles at her, miming a word from the corner of his mouth. "Where did you find her?"

Brienne looks towards Alys, who has seated herself next to Cley Cerwyn. "In the Barrowlands. She said she had been on her way South, trying to escape her uncle when words of the battle and your victory reached her."

Sansa turns her attention to the older girl, for a moment when they had arrived she had looked so much like Arya that Sansa's heart had surged with hope only to be crushed moments later when Alys had removed her hood.  _She is taller than Arya_ , she thinks to herself now. Arya had always been short of statue, something that had irked the girl when they were younger but Sansa had always thought it gave those who underestimated her more of a surprise when they realised that despite her height she was just as brave and as feisty as any boy.

"Do you think her sincere?"

Brienne tilts her head to the side as she contemplates her answer. "After having traveled with her I do not think you will find her a threat."

Her words does not ease Sansa's mind, all she sees before her is a Karstark and the Karstarks had betrayed her family. They had chosen to support the Boltons over them, they were part of the reason Rickon lies buried deep in the Crypts.

Brienne, as if sensing Sansa's inner turmoil, leans in closer to her, whispering, "I know you vowed to hang them all, but she is not her uncle or cousin, she had no hand in what happened to your brother."

Sansa watches the way Alys converses with familiarity with the other lords, they had all known each other back when her father ruled Winterfell, though Sansa had not been as acquainted with the girl as Robb and Jon had been. "I suppose you are right..." she replies after a long silence.

There is a sadness in Brienne's blue eyes as she murmurs, "We should never judge people based on the name they bear."

* * *

Sansa falls into line with Littlefinger when they all begin to exit the Great Hall. They have just reached the wide oak doors when Littlefinger suddenly seems to loose his footing, stumbling into a thin man in front of him.

The man's shoulder-lenght brown hair whips in the air as he spins around to reveal a handsome face. "Baelish," he sneers once his eyes land on Littlefinger, who is righting himself.

"Ah, Ser Corbray," Littlefinger replies, straightening his cotehardie, "I'm terribly sorry for that little mishap."

Corbray's lips curl back into another sneer as he takes menacing step closer to Littlefinger and Sansa. "Oh, you will be sorry," he hisses, gripping at the handle of his sword.

"Corbray!" Bronze Yohn booms, pushing his way through the group of people who have stopped to watch the spectacle. "Put up your steel!"

The heart-shaped ruby in the pommel of Corbray's sword gleams as he twists the sword in his grip. "My lady has a thirst," he insists. "Whenever she comes out to dance, she likes a drop of red."

Lord Royce shoves his way in between the knight and Littlefinger – who has kept a calm expression on his face throughout the ordeal. "Your lady must go thirsty."

"You've grown soft with age, Lord Royce," Corbray snorts before turning on his heel.

Bronze Yohn turns his attention to Littlefinger, giving him an apologetic look. "I apologise for his behaviour, Lord Baelish."

Littlefinger's lips curl into a sardonic smile. "I see Guest rights are no longer held in such a high esteem."

A look of anger flashes across the older lord's face. "His actions does not speak for me."

"And yet," Littlefinger says coldly as he takes a small step closer to the much taller man, "you surround yourself with the likes of him."

Bronze Yohn's eyes darken as he straightens to his full height, looming imposingly over Littlefinger's slight frame.

"My lords," Sansa interrupts, stepping between them, "lets not quarrel." She looks from one lord to the other. "After all we are all friends here."

"Indeed, my dear," Littlefinger replies, extending his arm to her. "Now come."

Sansa inclines her head to Lord Royce, catching his eye. "My lord."

"Who was that man?" she asks as Littlefinger leads her past the place where the Sept once stood.

"That was Lyn Corbray." He comes to a halt, smiling wryly as he looks into her eyes. "Quite the hot-tempered man."

"Lyn Corbray?" she draws the name out on her tongue as she tries to place it. "I do not think I have heard of him."

"His brother is Lyonel Corbray," Littlefinger offers before he begins to steer her towards the path that will take them to the godswood, "he is the Lord of Heart's Home."

The chain around Sansa's throat clinks softly as she tilts her head to the side, regarding Littlefinger closely. "Are they of trouble to you?"

She catches the hint of surprise her words has evoked in him as he lifts his brows at her. "No more than others."

She throws a cautious look over her shoulder but by now they have passed the library tower and no one seems to be near by. "Lord Royce and Anya Waynwood, they opposed you back in the Vale."

Littlefinger cocks an eyebrow at her but says no more as they enter the stillness of the godswood.

"And then there is this Lyn Corbray," Sansa comes to a halt, stepping in front of him "Do they not concern you?"

He seems to muse on it for awhile before finally settling his eyes on her face. "They may be powerful houses but I too have powerful friends in the Vale." He moves closer to her, reaching out with one dark gloved hand to cup her cheek that winter has painted red. "Does it concern you my dear?"

Sansa gives him a sharp look that has his lips curling at the corners of his mouth. "Of course it does."

He strokes his thumb down her cheek, leaving a burning trail behind. "Why?"

She struggles against the shivers that runs down her spine, forcing herself to fight against the fear that wants to lock her muscles into place. "Because if they are a threat to you, what is there to say they will not be a threat to the North?"

"Ah, there it is," Littlefinger whispers, dropping his hand to his side before stepping back, "the reason you are tolerating my presence."

Many might only hear the saddens in his voice and see the remorse written so clearly across his sharp features but Sansa is not one of many. She sees the gleaming humour in his eyes, sees the pleasure he takes in having her depend on him in some shape or form.

"You sold me to the Boltons." The name has a dark shadow of regret crossing his features but Sansa knows that it is not in anguish over her welfare. She has seen that look on many men's faces... it is a look of entitlement and the anguish Littlefinger so openly displays for her is one of rage, rage of having something that was his being stolen from him.

"Sansa," he begins, remaining where he is, "it was never meant to get that far."

Her voice bites through the cold air. "But it did."

Littlefinger's shoulders sag and the words leave him in a soft exhale, "But it did."

She looks away from him, locking her gaze on an old tree as she struggles with the tears burning in her eyes. "You were the only one I trusted," she grinds out through gritted teeth.

He is back at her side in mere moments, pulling at her hands, forcing her to turn, to look at him. "I know," he murmurs, clutching tightly at her hands, "that you have no reason to believe me ..." his voice seems to quaver on his next words, "but you cannot even begin to fathom how much I regret all that has happened." His green eyes desperately search her blue ones. "And Sansa, my love, I will do  _everything_ in my power to try and set things right."

* * *

Jon and his company ride in through the North Gate on a cold and windy evening, looking worse for wear as they stagger off of their tired horses. The cold clings to them, painting their hair white and their cheeks red as they hand over their horses to a pair of stable boys, who lead the poor creatures towards the warmth of the stables.

The company makes their way towards the middle of the courtyard where Sansa waits for them with Davos on one side and Brienne and Podrick on the other. "Your Grace," they say in unison and fall to their knees as Jon comes to a halt in front of them.

A look of great discomfort comes over Jon's face. "Please don't," he says, catching Sansa's gaze. "There is no need for any of you to bow to me, you are my friends."

Sansa smiles in relief as she takes in his unharmed appearance before getting back onto her feet. Jon's gaze linger on her just for a moment before he turns his attention to Brienne and Podrick. "I'm glad to see you made it back safely."

Podrick, seemingly intimidated by Jon's new title keeps quiet, only nodding his head in acknowledgement while Brienne gives him a tight-lipped smile. "As are we to see you, your Grace."

Jon winces at the use of his title but he does not implore her to call him by his name, knowing full well of Brienne's stubbornness to show respect.

The sound of someone clearing their throat cuts through the silence and they all turn their attention towards the source.

The ice in Tormund's beard glimmer in the light of Davos torch as he smiles at Brienne, arching his eyebrows all while seeming to puff out his chest. "Brienne."

Brienne shifts her weight under the Wildling's intense stare. "Tormund."

Tormund's teeth flashes in the light as his grin grows broader and Brienne quickly averts her gaze from his looking from side to side as if wishing she could escape.

Sansa has to bite down on her lower lip to keep from laughing and one look at Jon's face tells her he is struggling just as much as she is.

"Perhaps we should move inside?" Davos suggests, taking pity on Brienne.

"Aye," Jon agrees before turning to the rest of the men that had accompanied him, advising them to get a bite to eat before bidding them a goodnight.

* * *

 Sansa has food brought into the council chamber, once Jon and Tormund have both eaten they begin their tale of what had transpired with the Mountain Clans.

"They are loyal to House Stark," Jon says, smiling fondly for a moment before looking at Sansa. "They're more than willing to fight for you."

Tormund looks as if he is about to argue but before he has a chance to say anything Sansa beats him to it. "And you, Jon."

"What about the Others?" Davos asks, leaning back in his chair, regarding Jon. "Do they believe in them?"

Jon sighs and scratches at his chin, looking at Davos with tired eyes. "To an extent, but they were easier to convince than the other northerners."

"Does it not worry you that they won't believe?" Brienne asks from next to Sansa.

"Aye," Jon agrees, "it does."

Brienne glances down at Sansa with uncertainty in her blue eyes. "I can hardly believe it myself... and yet I know neither of you are liars."

"What do you propose we do about it?" Sansa asks. "Venture out beyond the Wall and try to capture one?" She had not meant the words to be taken literally but something in the way Jon's eyes flash at her words catches her attention and a cold dread freezes the blood in her veins.

"When can we be expecting the clans men?" Davos asks, breaking the heavy silence that has settled in the room.

"They will be coming down during the coming months."

* * *

Weariness is written clearly across Jon's features as he drags his body up the spiraling staircase that leads to the floor housing their chambers. Sansa hesitates behind him, watching his shoulders sag with exhaustion as he approaches his door, she wishes for nothing more but to let him sleep and get some well needed rest but she has to speak with him, and so even though it tears at her heart to do so she calls out to him.

"Jon! We need to speak."

Once inside his chamber she tells him about Alys Karstark's arrival as he strokes the fire before shedding himself of his clothes until he is in nothing but his tunic and trousers. She watches from her seat at the edge of his bed as the muscles in his back ripple when he leans over the wash basin, splashing cool water onto his face in an attempt to stay alert.

"You will have to speak with her tomorrow."

All Jon seems to be able to muster is a grunt of response before he walks over to the other side of the bed where he flops down face first onto it. A tender awareness crawls over Sansa's features at the sight of it, for in that moment he ha reminded her so much of Rickon.

Jon rolls over onto his side just as Sansa stands, about to leave. A stray lock of hair falls over his closed eye and before she can truly comprehend what she is doing she has lied down next to him, watching his dark lashes flutter against his skin as his eyes move underneath the lids.

She does not mean to but she falls asleep to the sound of the wind howling outside and to the sound of Jon's soft and even breathing.

She wakes several hours later into the night by a cold shiver that spreads through her body in a response to a dream that is quickly fading from her memory. She chances a glance at Jon, afraid that she might have awoken him but his eyes are still closed and soft puffs of air escapes past his slightly open mouth as he sleeps.

Her dress rustles quietly against the bedding as she slips a hand underneath her chin, studying his face. Her eyes travel along one of the thin scars that runs through his dark eyebrow, from there they continue their path down his prominent cheekbone until they settle on the corner of his mouth that is curved into a smile.

"What are you doing?" he rasps amused, keeping his eyes closed.

She entertains the idea of closing her own eyes and feigning sleep but before she can do so he blinks his eyes open and she finds herself lost in them. "Nothing," she finally whispers.

Jon chuckles quietly and readjust the pillow, bunching it up underneath him. "Do I have something on my face?"

Sansa's lips twitch unintentionally. "Besides drool you mean?"

Jon's laughter fills the room, but he does rub his cheek against the pillow before looking at her with eyes full of endearment. "Aye."

"You needn't worry," she promises and her eyes glimmer in the candlelight.

He smiles lazily before closing his eyes again and Sansa finds herself studying his face once more.

"You can ask," he murmurs but she furrows her brows at him.

"Ask what?"

He keeps his eyes closed and she does not know if it is because he is teetering on the brink of sleep or if it is because he is afraid to look at her. "How I got them."

Truthfully Sansa had not been thinking about it but nevertheless she reaches out with her free hand, tracing one finger along the thin scar she had been studying earlier. "This one?"

Jon's skin twitches underneath her touch as he opens his mouth to speak. "It's from an eagle."

"An eagle?"

"Aye," he answers, hearing the disbelief in her voice.

"But," Sansa says as her finger trace the scar from his eyebrow down over his closed lid to his cheek, "why would an eagle attack you?"

Jon's body stiffens and his hands curl into fists. "It wasn't the eagle but the person inside the eagle that attacked me."

She blinks at him confused, feeling utterly lost in the conversation. "What?"

"Do you remember Old Nan's stories about wargs?"

She frowns, wargs was something the old folk knew of but rarely spoke about. Bran had loved those stories, he used to beg and plead with Old Nan to tell them about the Greenseers and Wargs, while Sansa herself had scrunched up her nose, she had always preferred the stories about princesses and knights. Eventually Old Nan had relented to Bran's wishes and she had told them about The Children of the Forest and how they had sung the song of earth and how the earth had listened to them, granting some of them the ability to leave their bodies and enter that of an animal, it was also said that some of them had the ability to perceive the past and the future.

"The Children of the Forest," Sansa finally says in a voice soft as a whisper. "Old Nan said they could enter animals."

Jon's dark lashes frame his grey eyes as he opens them to look at her. "Some men can too... no one knows why."

There is something in his voice that catches her attention. "Can you?"

His brows furrow and his eyes lock onto a lock of her hair. "I don't know..." she strokes one finger along his cheekbone, bringing him out of his reverie. "I have dreams sometimes," he admits, looking into her eyes. "Dreams where I am inside Ghost..." uncertainty creeps into his voice as he struggles to find the right words. "At times they feel too real."

"Sometimes I feel like there is a piece of me missing," she confesses.

Jon's eyes flash with so many emotions Sansa has a hard time discerning them but the most prominent of them all shines through like a beacon; concern. "What do you mean?"

She thinks of all the times during these last months that she has watched Ghost by Jon's side, man and wolf, both of whom rely so heavily on each other. "It's from somewhere deep within," she says, pressing one hand to her chest. "It is not the same as what Joffrey and Ramsay took, this... this is something I cannot regain."

Jon remains quiet, sensing that it is important.

She bites down on her lower lip, frowning at her own thoughts as she attempts to word them. "It is as if I am on the edge of something, and beyond it is this whole... other world but I cannot grasp it because something is missing."

It is Jon turn to cup her cheek with his hand, gently grazing his thumb against the faint scar on her cheek – a remnant of a dead man. "Lady."

She blinks and looks into his eyes. "Yes."

They grow quiet after that and eventually Jon's eyes fall shut and his hand slips onto the bedding between them, but Sansa remains alert watching as he turns his face into the pillow which gives her a better view of the curved scar that runs from his forehead to below his eye, it had been a fresh wound when they met but now nothing remains but for a white streak. Her gaze travels from his face down to his his chest, knowing that his shirt hides red and angry wounds that time does not seem to heal. A crease appears between her eyebrows as she realises how much Jon has shared with her, while she herself has allowed him to come to his own conclusions.

"Jon..."

His eyes open at once, wide and alert as they take in their surroundings , years of habit, she thinks, having had to survive north of the Wall. "What is it?"

She bites down on her lower lip, pulling the flesh between her teeth. "Do you want to know how I got mine?"

Jon's expression grows soft as he looks at her with considerate eyes. "Do you want to tell me?"

She thinks about it for moment, furrowing her brow before finally meeting his gaze. "Yes, if you want to listen."

He does not saying anything but simply nods, sensing that it is important for her not be interrupted.

Sansa reaches for his hand that lies between them and brings it to her face, placing it over the scar he had touched earlier. "This one is from King's Landing."

Jon finds no fear or anger in her eyes, it is as if the memory is far removed now and perhaps it fades in comparison to the other stories her scars carries with them.

"The Smallfolk rioted against Joffrey. I got caught up in it, some men attempted to rape me-" Jon's sharp intake of breath snaps her attention back to him. "The Hound saved me." She smiles sardonically. "I was lucky back then."

She moves his hand onto her back, and though Jon cannot feel the uneven skin her dress hides from his view he knows where the scars are, it is something that will forever be engraved in his mind.

"I was lucky," she continues, "to only receive beatings back then." Her blue eyes harden. "Ser Meryn particularly enjoyed to carry them out."

Jon cannot help himself, he reaches out with his other hand and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear while moving closer to her so that if Sansa was to tilt her head forward just an inch their noses would be touching.

"Whenever Robb won a battle," she continues, "Joffrey would have him beat me." She clutches at the hand she holds against her back. "The rest are from  _him_. Lashes, bites, burns,  _cuts_ ," the words slip past her lips in a rush, growing more and more rapid with each one. "He enjoyed using his knives."

She does not realise that her breathing has grown shallow until Jon breaths out her name and cradles her cheek in his palm. "Thank you," he whispers – placing his forehead against hers – and it is the furthers thing away from what she had expected him to say, so much so that her breathing evens outs with her surprise.

"For what?"

The small lines around Jon's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "For trusting me enough to tell me."

"Jon," his name spill out past her lips like a soft caress, "you are the only one I trust."

* * *

"Where are you going, my lady?" Brienne inquiers as she follows behind Sansa who is walking briskly across the grounds of Winterfell, taking no heed of the cold weather.

"I wish to visit the Free Folks," Sansa calls over her shoulder as she makes her way towards the Bell Tower, "and then perhaps if there is time I was thinking of visiting the smallfolk in Wintertown."

She catches the hint of surprise her words has evoked in the older woman before she turns back around. When they had parted ways Brienne had left behind a girl intent on not being broken but whose scars cut so deeply that she would jump at the merest inclination of touch being initiated, that girl would never willingly have wandered into a town with people lined up to see her. If she is being truthful to herself Sansa still fears it all but she has to put aside her fear for the good of her people, and if she wants the smallfolk to like her she needs to meet with them, there is no way getting around that. She had seen what Cersei's and Joffery's relationship with the smallfolk had done to them, and it is something she knows they cannot afford to happen to them, and so she has decided to lead by Margaery's example.

The barracks that the Wildlings live in are cramped and the air inside them is stale but it does not seem to deter those who live there, but that does not quell Sansa's guilt for having housed them out here while the lords were being kept in the Guest House. Jon and Tormund had laughed at her concerns and assured her that she need not worry about it, but Sansa did. She did not wish for quarrels to arise among their own men because of their housing and so she made sure to provide the Free Folk with meat, fish and ale – after they had refused her offer of dining in the Great Hall – she had also given them tools needed to mend clothing and other such things.

"Sansa!" a child calls and before Sansa really has time to comprehend what is happening the child has flung itself at her, colliding with her stomach.

"Hello, Aslak," Sansa smiles ruffling a shock of dark hair before bending down to look into startling blue eyes of a boy no older than four.

The boy rocks back on his heels, giving her a shy smile. "Are you here to tell us more stories?"

Sansa looks around her at the other children, peeking curiously at her from their various positions. "If you'd like me to."

The boy's face breaks out into a toothy grin. "Yes!"

By now Sansa has exhausted all of her stories and as she wrack her mind for one she hasn't told she happens to look into Aslak's expecting eyes, once more growing captivated by their blue depths. "Do you know that there is an Ice Dragon in the sky? He was flung up there by a giant as he laid dying..."

Sansa throws a glance at Brienne – who had stayed quiet throughout her storytelling. The woman looks mildly uncomfortable at being surrounded by so many Wildlings, which was what Sansa had expected of her and why she had decided to bring Brienne with her. It is hard thing to break prejudices that has been built up over countless of generations, and even though Brienne might be at terms with having the Free Folk on their side it does not mean that she has gone to any extent to socialise with them since her return. Sansa needs for Brienne to set an example because if she does surely others will follow, but first she needs Brienne leading by her example.

"They'll not be sleeping tonight," A raspy voice says from somewhere above Sansa.

She tilts her head and finds Ragna looking down at her through those sunken eyes of hers. "No?"

The old woman's thin hair falls around her face as she shakes her head amused, before nodding in the direction the children had run off in. "No, them all be out all night looking for your dragon."

Sansa laughs as she gets back up onto her feet, brushing dirt off of her dress. "I'm afraid that cannot be helped."

Ragna clucks her tongue before turning her dark beady eyes on Brienne. "Who's your friend?"

Sansa holds out a hand to Brienne who reluctantly steps closer to them. "Ragna this is Brienne of Tarth."

Brienne simply inclines her head at a loss of how to greet the Wildling woman while Ragna cocks her head to the side, taking in Brienne's height and armour. "You a spearwife?"

Brienne's brows knit together as she gapes at Ragna. "I... I... a what?"

Sansa laughs at her friend's bafflement while Ragna chuckles quietly to herself. "A spearwife is a female warrior," Sansa explains.

Realisation slowly dawns on Brienne's face. "Yes," she says to Ragna, "yes, although I am no ones wife."

Ragna's chapped lips curl into a crooked smile. "I didn't say you were."

* * *

 

"I did not know Wildling women fought," Brienne says to Sansa once they begin to make their way back to the Great Keep.

"No?" Sansa hums, nodding to a scullery maid carrying a basket of egg. "It's something they take great pride in."

Brienne's sword bobs against her knee as she turns her curious gaze on Sansa. "Have you ever met one?"

Sansa's brows knit together as she peers over her shoulder at the barracks. "I think many of them died at Hardhome..." She lifts one hand to brush away a tendril of hair from her face before looking back at Brienne. "Then there were others that fell during the battle." A small smile plays on her lips as something beyond Brienne catches her attention. "Why do you not ask Tormund about it? Maybe he knows someone I do not."

"I don't think-" Brienne begins but before she has a chance to say anything else Sansa has already waved her hand in the air.

"Tormund!"

The way Brienne's blue eyes widen is almost comical, almost as comical as Tormund's haste to get over to them once he sees Brienne standing by Sansa's side.

"Brienne was asking me about spearwives," she informs Tormund once he reaches them, "and I thought you were more fit to explain about them than me," she says with a gleam in her eye.

A look of surprise flashes across Tormund's face before his eyes light up with delight as he looks at Brienne – who is shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot – with a growing smile, Sansa seizes the opportunity and slips away before neither of them has chance to notice.

She shakes her head to herself and lifts her face towards the sky with a smile on her face, allowing the snowflakes that are trickling down to kiss her lips.

The smile quickly fades away however once her eyes land on two figures, walking side by side across the courtyard, silently conversing with each other.

"Quite the pair they make," Littlefinger whispes, coming up behind her.

Sansa does not make any sign of acknowledgement – except for the clenching of her fists – as she watches Alys smile up at Jon as he stops by the entrance of the godswood, gesturing for her to enter before him.

* * *

Sansa stays up long into the night working a thread and needle through a wool undershirt to the sound of the fire in the hearth popping and sizzling as it casts shadows that dance eerily against the stone walls.

It is only when the needle cuts through her skin causing a single droplet of blood to fall onto the shirt that she decides to set aside her sewing. But once she has crawled underneath the furs and drawn them high up to her chin sleep will still not come, and she fears that if it does it will bring with it something far more menacing than the ghosts dancing on the walls.

She lies awake until her body grows weary, sinking heavily into the mattress underneath her but her eyes remain wide and awake. From somewhere outside her window a faint hooting of an owl can be heard and it is to its call that she slips her bare feet onto the warm stones, making her way over to the desk, taking a key out of the top drawer.

She slips quietly into Jon's room, expecting red eyes to stare at her from underneath a face of white fur but the bear pelt the direwolf usually sleeps on is vacant. She makes sure to latch the door before she makes her way towards Jon's sleeping figure.

It does not take long for her to notice that something is amiss with him. The muscles in his jaw work furiously as he grinds his teeth against one another while his arms flay wildly from side to side. For a moment Sansa freezes, she has seen him have nightmares before but it is the way he holds himself during this one that has her hesitating. When he dreams about what his brothers did to him he curls into himself, trying to protect himself but now it is as if he is struggling against something, attempting to get away.

Sweat gathers along his forehead as he groans out a, "No," tossing his head to the side. "No, no, no."

"Jon," Sansa calls out, not daring to touch him.

He shifts on the bed, twisting the furs between his legs as he raises his arms, trying to push something away. "No, I don't belong here." Anguish twists his face into an ugly grimace before he abruptly rolls onto his stomach. His hands scramble along the old headboard and he latches onto it with a vice grip while kicking out with his legs. " _I'm not a Stark!_ "

A coldness creeps into Sansa's body, turning the blood in her veins to ice. "Jon,  _wake up_!"

He cannot hear her desperate plea, trapped in his own battle of survival and so Sansa takes a deep breath, steeling herself before grabbing hold of his shoulder, shaking it. "Jon, wake up, it's me. It's Sansa."

She barely has time to duck as his fist swings in her direction. "It's alright Jon," she continues as soothingly as she possible can while moving away from him. "It's just a dream. You're only dreaming, no one is here." He kicks his feet out in the direction of her voice, still clutching at the headboard with a grip so tight the skin around his knuckles has turned white. "Jon, it's only you and me here," she tries again.

Her words fall on deaf ears as he continues to struggle desperately against his demons. "Jon," her voice cracks as reaches out for him, closing a hand over his. "Jon, it's me. It's Sansa."

He flinches at her touch and strikes out with his free hand towards her stomach but she evades it by ducking to her left, giving him the opportunity to fling himself off of the bed and into a corner of the room, where he wedges himself in between the wall and his desk.

Tears spill down Sansa's cheek in a steady flow as she sits on her knees in the middle of the bed, watching him tug at his hair in despair. "I promise you that everything is all right," she whispers.

She looses track of how much time passes, all she knows is that she talks until her throat is dry and burns. She talks of the small things, such as how the winter roses are blooming in a small part of the Glass Gardens, about the meal she is having prepared for the coming day, how Tormund had smiled when she had asked him to tell Brienne about spearwives. She talks until Jon stops tearing at his hair, talks until he slumps forward and leans his head against his knees.

Her cheek moves against the fur she is lying on as she whispers, "It would be really good if you could wake up now." A tear slides down  her cheek and onto her chin before spilling onto the bed

Jon looks up at her with a semblance of recognition in the early hours of the morning when the sky is still dark and the snow beats against the window.

Sansa's hair spills down over her shoulder in a shimmering red curtain as she slowly lifts herself onto her elbows. "Hi..."

A look of uncertainty pass across his face as he peers down at his shaking hands and the few tufts of hair that lies on the floor next to him. He holds up a piece of hair in his trembling hand, twisting it to get a better look of it, nausea rolls inside of Sansa's stomach at the sight of it.

"I tried to stop you," her voice is hoarse and the words cuts at her throat like knives.

The lock spills through Jon's open fingers. "Sansa?"

"Yes."

He sucks in a sharp breath as he looks around himself. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," she answers scooting off the bed. "You had a bad dream, none of this is your fault."

She gets onto her knees in front of him, taking both of his hands in hers. They still shake furiously and this close she can see his body tremble with them and hear his teeth chatter against each other, it is something she knows will not go away at once. She has experienced it herself many times, experienced how her body aches painfully with each tremor as it comes down from the adrenaline.

"Do you want to come and lie down?" she asks, watching as his dark orbs lock onto their hands.

He nods slowly, hesitantly and so she gently coaxes him onto his feet by pulling at his hands. He staggers at first and she reaches out with one arm, snaking it around his sturdy waist as she leads him over to the bed.

He more or less fall onto it and once he seems to have found a comfortable position she draws the furs up around him, stroking a hand through his hair.

"Where are you going?" he asks with fear in his eyes as she steps away from the bed.

"I just need a cup of water," she reassures, walking over to where he keeps a pitcher of water next to the wash basin.

She pours herself a cup, quickly swallowing it, allowing it to sooth her searing throat before pouring herself another one. Droplets of water spill past the corners of her mouth as she turns to look at Jon. "Do you want one?"

He nods once before sitting up, taking the cup she holds out to him. He drains it just as quickly as she had and she refills it two more times for him before he seems content.

Sansa does not hesitate, lifting the furs to slip in underneath them beside Jon. "You need to tell me what you are so afraid of," she urges him, reaching out with one hand to stroke her fingers against his curved scar.

He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting an inner battle that leaves them in a long silence.

She drags a finger along the outside corner of his eye. "You said you didn't belong, Jon," she tells him. "You said you were not a Stark." She slips her free hand in between his cheek and the pillow, grasping his face with both of her hands, moving closer to him. "Jon, you must know that is not true."

His grey eyes is filled with torment as he opens them to look at her and it takes her aback for a moment. "I do not belong though, not down there..."

Sansa's brows come together into one straight line. "What do you mean 'down there'?"

"The crypts," he whispers brokenly, twisting his hand around the fur. "Bran... he wants me to go down there but they keep whispering I do not belong."

"Who does?"

His eyes gleam like clashing swords as he locks his gaze with hers. "The Kings of Winter."

"To hells with the Kings of Winter," Sansa hisses, clutching at his face, pulling it closer to hers. " _I_ say you belong here and that is all that matters."

Jon chuckles at her words but it is a sound devoid of any joy.

"Is that why you are so afraid of going down there?" Sansa asks, searching his eyes for an answer. "Because you do not feel like you belong?"

"No... I'm afraid of going there because of what I might find."

* * *

When Sansa wakes it is to the feeling of being cocooned in a blanket of warmth that sends pleasant shivers running up and down her spine as she snuggles deeper into the it contently. The warmth tightens around her and she feels soft puffs of air tickling against the exposed skin of her neck.

Her eyes fly open as she realises that weight across her waist is someone's arm, fear momentarily has her body locking itself into place while her throat begins to constrict. Her vision grows more and more narrow and she has to struggle to fill her lungs with air, feeling as if each breath she takes leaves them more empty than what they had been before, but then her gaze falls on the burned hand that rests against her abdomen and then her next breath comes more easily.

She carefully lifts her head to peer over her shoulder, only to find Jon snuggled up against her. Her body relaxes as she lowers her head back onto the pillow, closing her eyes. For a moment she simply lies there, basking in the safety she feels in his embrace, registering the way his arm feels slung across her waist, and the warmth one of his legs provides in between hers, but then he shifts in his sleep, pulling her closer to him and she suddenly grows afraid that he might wake up and find them this way.

Terrified of what his reaction might be, she carefully twists out of his hold, rolling over so that she is facing him, keeping a safe distance between their bodies.

He wakes as she accidentally jostles him and she quickly grabs her pillow, pretending to readjust it as he blinks bleary-eyed at her.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "Did I wake you?"

"It's fine," Jon reassures groggily before peering out the window at the lightening sky. "What time is it?"

Sansa lift one shoulder in half a shrug. "I think we overslept." Jon turns his face into his pillow, groaning quietly and Sansa's lips quirk at the sound of it. "I meant to ask you for a favour."

"What is it?" he asks, returning his attention to her.

Sansa's hair tumbles down her back as she sits up. "I need you to ask Yohn Royce to attend a private audience with you."

* * *

"-and then Aslak said that the giant loved the dragon so much he didn't want it to die and so he threw it into the sky," Willa says as she skips excitedly around Sansa. "Is it true that its tail is so long because he swung it up onto the sky with it?"

Sansa strokes one hand through the girl's untamed hair. "Of course it's true."

Willa's eyes light up with delight and she quickly tilts her face up towards the sky. "I can't see it," she mutters sourly, squinting at the whiteness.

"You will have to wait until it's evening like the rest of us I'm afraid," Sansa tells her, holding the door to the Great Keep open for the child.

Willa grumbles quietly about how that will take far too long and how she does not have time for such things. They make their way to the top floor of the keep where Sansa enters her chamber only to return a moment later with a white envelope.

"Give this to Arrec will you?" She says handing it to the child.

Willa nods and they both head for the stone corridor. "Arrec says he's going to join the guard," Willa tells Sansa, fiddling with the envelope.

"And he will," Sansa agrees coming to a stop, "once the new maester arrives."

Willa cocks her head to the side curiously. "When will that be?"

Sansa frowns. "We do not know yet, this weather has made travelling hard, which is why Arrec has to tend to the ravens." She leans down, brushing some of Willa's hair away from her ear, whispering,  _"We need someone we can trust to handle the messages."_

Willa smiles and nods proudly at the praise for her friend.

"Now hurry up and give that to him," Sansa tells her before slipping into passage that goes unnoticed by those who do not know of its existence.

The passageway takes Sansa down several flights of stairs until she comes out in an empty hallway that houses the council room. She raps her hand three times against the wooden door before slipping inside making sure to lock it behind her.

Jon and Bronze Yohn look up from the map spread out across the table that they had been pouring their attention over. "Were you followed?" Jon asks.

Sansa's braid sways against her back as she shakes her head. "I sent Willa as a decoy with a letter to Arrec."

"Good," Jon replies, nodding.

"My lady," Bronze Yohn says, stepping around the table, "what is this about?"

Sansa gestures to one of the chairs. "Please sit, my lord, we have a few pressing matters to discuss."

"I asked you here because we need to come up with a plan to secure the Vale," she begins the conversation once all three of them are seated.

Lord Royce does not seem the least surprised by her words, instead he leans back in his chair looking more expectant than anything else. "What is that snake plotting?"

Sansa smiles at the lord. "Truthfully I could not say entirely yet but we all know he plans to gain full control of the Vale one way or another, and we need to be ready to counter his move."

"How do you plan to do that?" Jon asks looking from Sansa to the elderly lord.

She locks her gaze with Jon's. "I have an idea in mind... if Lord Royce gives his consent to it," she says turning her attention to the other lord who raises both of his bushy eyebrows at her.

"I am all ears."

"Sweetrobin is a sickly child," she begins, clasping her hands in her lap, "and I have for long now had my suspicion that he might succumb to his addiction of sweetsleep."

Jon throws her a look of surprise but she ignores it, keeping her eyes on Lord Royce who nods for her to continue.

"If Robin dies," she continues, "Harrold Hardyng becomes the new ruler of the Vale. We need to make sure he is safe and out of Littlefinger's clutches."

Lord Royce voices is gruff as he shifts forward. "The lad is currently a ward of Lady Anya Waynwood."

"Yes," Sansa nods, "but if something was to happen to him the Vale would spiral into chaos, and so we need to come up with a plan to prevent that."

"What exactly is it that you propose we do, Lady Stark?"

Sansa unfolds her hands and places them atop the table. "Write to Anya Waynwood and have her make arrangements for a marriage between your daughter Ysilla and Harry the Heir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second disclaimer: The part where Lyn Corbray says "My lady has a thirst. Whenever she comes out to dance, she likes a drop of red." and Bronze Yohn's response "Your lady must go thirsty." is taken directly from A Feast for Crows (p.486, paperback edition.) I take no credit for that.
> 
> There is probably a ton of spelling mistakes in this, but It's really late here and I simply do not have the energy to go through this. I will fix it (probably when I can force myself to fix all of the other chapters) eventually.
> 
> How do you guys feel about the names I have given some of the Wildlings? I find it really hard to come up with good ones and so I decided to go with old Norse names, and although I think the majority of the old names we have here in Sweden are pretty bad but I actually like Aslak for some weird reason.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones! Some quotes in this are taken directly from season seven episode one Dragonstone, I take no credit for them. There will be a second disclaimer at the end of this chapter.
> 
> That episode you guys!!!!  
> I just loved it! But it kind of leaves me in a bind though... My whole aim when I began this story was to explore Sansa and Jon's relationship, to fill out the missing gaps, obviously I had to chose my own path when I reached the last episode of season 6, which is why the story will now differ a lot from the show. I will most likely combine aspects from the show into this but other things will be completely different (the last half of this chapter will probably extremely different from the show), I hope that does not bother you too much.
> 
> So apparently some people are saying Sansa is turning evil because she said she learnt things from Cersei, how does that make her evil exactly? She is utilizing everything she has learned from living with her enemies to keep her family and the North safe, that does not mean she is going dark. If anyone is beginning to become a darker version of themselves it's Daenerys with her notion that she has a divine right to rule Westeros, that she somehow needs to liberate the people and give them justice she thinks they deserve, and that those who oppose her can either 'live in her new world or die in their old one'.
> 
> The first half of this chapter may be a bit slow but I promise that if you hang in there the second half will be more interesting. 
> 
> I also just want to say thank you to all of my readers who despite my horrendously long absence has still stuck around to read this story. I've lost a lot of readers, so those of you still reading this and reviewing mean the world to me!  
> And I promise that I will never ever write such a long authors note again.

“The marriage between Lord Royce's daughter and Harry the Heir will take place tomorrow.”

There is the sound of paper rustling as Jon looks up all bleary-eyed from the book he has been pouring all his attention over the last two hours. “Won't Baelish suspect your hand it?”

Sansa stifles a yawn, sitting back up on the bear pelt so that she has a better look of Jon over by the desk. “I don't think that is something we have to worry about.”

Jon allows the book to fall shut with a thud before turning towards her. “Why not?”

Sansa tilts her head to the side, attempting to rid herself of the pain that has been building in her neck after all the hours she has spent bent over old weathered scrolls. “Lord Royce and Anya Waynwood have not been quiet in their dislike for Littlefinger and so them opposing him by marrying Ysilla to Harry will not come as great surprise.”

Jon finds no reassurance in her words if anything his eyes grow more troubled. “What is to stop Baelish from having Harry or Lord Royce's daughter killed?”

Sansa lifts her arms above her head, stretching her body out. “Right now they are at Ironoaks, and Lady Waynwood has been instructed to keep them there until this whole mess has been sorted. They will be safe there, Jon,” she promises after catching a look of doubt flit over his face.

“Will you?” His eyes bore into hers, searching for some truth she may have concealed from him.

“Will I be what?”

Her name leaves his lips on a soft exhale as he gets onto his feet, stepping around the bed and kneeling down on the pelt next to her. “Will you be safe?”

Sansa's tongue grows heavy in her mouth and her heart beats helplessly against her chest.

“I'm not stupid Sansa,” he tells her. “I see the way he looks at you.”

She lowers her gaze, fiddling with the worn edge of a scroll. “I can handle Littlefinger.”

Jon's warm hand closes around hers. “You shouldn't have to.”

She looks from their joined hands to his face. He watches her closely, waiting for the barest hint of emotion to betray her. “I know what I'm doing, Jon.” She turns her hand around, twining her fingers with his.

Jon's grip tightens. “Just promise me that if it ever gets to be too much you will come to me.”

The lie passes smoothly through her lips. “I promise.”

He exhales softly as if a weight has just been lifted off of his shoulders, before glancing down at the many scrolls she has spread out on the pelt. “Perhaps we should give it a rest for tonight.”

Sansa twists her head to the side so that she can look out the window at the dark sky. It is hard to tell how long into the night they are these days because of the darkness. It creeps its way across the sky early in the afternoon and fades slowly late in the mornings, making the nights so much longer than before.

“You're right,” she agrees, toying with the edge of a scroll. “I don't think we will find anything in these anyway.”

“No?” Jon asks as he begins to gather them up into his arms.

“No,” she replies, watching as he stands to dispose of them at the table. “If there was something about the Others in them we would already know. Bran would have told us about it,” she clarifies at Jon's questioning look. “He loved those kind of stories and I don't doubt that he would have scourged the library to find out more about them.”

“Aye, that's true,” Jon agrees with a small smile, remembering Bran's childlike wonder for the stories about the ghouls.

Sansa glances at the locked door as Jon gets into the bed, curling into himself. She entertains the idea of getting up, unlocking the door and make her way down the corridor to her own chamber where she will hide away underneath the furs of her bed, fighting against sleep until dawn finally breaks through the darkness.

She peers up at the bed where she finds Jon's grey eyes looking down at her from above a blanket of furs. “Where is Ghost?”

The blanket shifts around him as he moves. “Hunting.”

A weight lifts from Sansa's chest at his words because if Ghost is not there, if he wanders through the godswood or decides to roam the Wolfswood then perhaps Jon will dream about him and not about what haunts him from the depths of the crypts.

“I hope he catches a boar,” she says, attempting for a smile while laying down on the pelt, pillowing her head on her arm.

“Sansa...”

She looks into his eyes, silently imploring her, and with a small shaky breath she stands, walking over the the vacant side of the bed where she lifts the furs aside and slip into the warmth. Once she has rolled onto her side, facing him while drawing one knee up no awkwardness remains, all she feels is the warmth of the bed and the safety his presence provides. “Goodnight.”

Jon bunches the pillow up underneath, shifting his body closer to hers. “Goodnight, Sansa.”

* * *

She slips out of Jon's chamber early in the morning, throwing one quick glance behind her at a sleeping Jon before quietly closing the door, creeping down the corridor until she reaches her own door. Once inside her chamber she changes out of the clothes she had worn the previous day before donning a dark grey dress.

It is a struggle to fasten the direwolf closures of her collar, but ever since her return to Winterfell she has refused the help of maids dressing her. The mere thought of having them touch her or see the scars that mar her skin makes her stomach turn.

The chain around her throat rattles softly as she runs it through the ring that holds the necklace together before securing the end of it onto the leather belt around her waist. Her gloved hands reach for her cloak, slipping it on as she creaks her door open before stepping outside.

The snow crunch underneath Sansa's boots as she wanders through the inner ward with nothing but the light of a single torch accompanying her as she steps into the shadow of the the Broken Tower.

“You are up early, my love,” a quiet voice says from behind her.

Sansa turns and the light of the torch falls upon Littlefinger's face, basking it in an orange glow. “I could not sleep.” She takes in the haphazard way his houppelande has been thrown on over wrinkled clothes. “What about you? Why are you awake at such an hour?”

Littlefinger's shoulders sag and he lets out an exhausted sigh. “I am afraid I share your predicament.”

Sansa smiles inwardly, having no doubt that the careful footsteps she had heard from behind her until she had passed the First Keep are the real source behind his presence.

She moves the torch to her other hand, flexing her fingers. “Is there something that troubles you?”

Littlefinger leans forward, taking the torch from her. “Bronze Yohn has made his first move,” he tells her, watching her face carefully.

She keeps her face impassive in the flickering light. “He has?”

“Yes,” Littlefinger smiles and shakes his head as if the whole thing amuses him. “It never pays to underestimate a man.”

“You don't underestimate anyone,” She says causing Littlefinger to look at her, tilting his head to the side.

“No...” he agrees. “I rarely do.”

His eyes flicker over her face while Sansa silently struggles against the discomfort that is growing inside of her. “What has he done?”

Littlefinger's houppelande swirls behind him as he turns, taking a couple of steps towards the Crypts before turning back around to look at her. “He has married his daughter to Harrold Hardyng.”

Sansa's eyebrows knit together as she allows his words to sink in. “Harry the Heir?” She steps closer to Littlefinger, wringing her hands as she does. “But I thought he was going to marry her off to Mychel Redfort...”

A look of distaste crosses Littlefinger's sharp features. “That is what he had us all believe.”

Sansa's cloak leaves a trail behind in the snow as she approaches the short man. “What does that mean?” she asks with an underlying sense of urgency, desperately searching his eyes. “What does that mean for the Vale?”

“It means that if something were to happen to Robin, Yohn Royce and Anya Waynwood will be in full control of the Vale.” Littlefinger closes the remaining distance between them, reaching out with his hand to cup her cheek. “You do realise what this means for you?”

Sansa removes her gaze from his, staring blankly at the dark silhouette of the Guard's Hall. “I shall have to marry again.”

The leather of his glove slides along her cheek onto her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You will have to leave your home again.”

Sansa's eyes are hard as steel as she hisses, “Winterfell is my home. I belong here.”

“Not if your brother or husband say otherwise.”

* * *

“Lady Sansa!”

Sansa's red hair whips in the air as she turns around to find Brienne sidestepping a group of men heading for the the training yard.

Her face is lined with worry as she reaches Sansa looking her up and down. “I went to your chamber but I couldn't find you...”

Sansa offers the woman a reassuring smile. “I couldn't sleep and so I decided to spend the morning in the godswood.”

Brienne's hand rests on the hilt of her sword as she regards Sansa carefully. “I went to the heart tree...”

A flash of something dark catches the corner of Sansa's eye and she turns her head slightly to the side, keeping her attention on Brienne while also giving herself a better view of the dark clad man leaning against the side of the Guest House. The heart shaped ruby in the pommel of his sword catches at light streaming out from one of the windows as he moves, slicing a dagger through a piece of dried meat before raising the slice to his lips, watching them.

“You must have missed me,” she tells Brienne, smiling at her.

Brienne hand subconsciously tightens around her sword as she shifts her weight, looking as if she is about to argue but Sansa does not grant her the opportunity. “Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

Brienne gives her a hard stare but Sansa is unrelenting and eventually the woman sighs. “The king has requested our presence in the council room.”

* * *

 “I'm calling for a meeting tomorrow,” Jon tells all of those gathered in candlelit council chamber.

“What sort of meeting?” Tormund asks, perching himself on the windowsill.

“A meeting about how the North will prepare itself for the Long Night and what will happen if the Wall falls,” Jon says, looking at his friend and a silent understanding seems to pass between the two.

Brienne shifts forward in her seat, clearing her throat to draw their attention to her. “What exactly is your plan?”

Jon leans forward, bending over the table, pointing a finger at the map laid out on it. “The Last Hearth and Karhold will be the first places the dead will reach if they manage to breach the Wall.” He strokes his finger over the spot that marks Karhold. “We need to decide what to do with them.”

The lines on Davos forehead wrinkle as he looks down at the map. “They need to be manned properly.”

“Aye,” Jon agrees.

Sansa tilts her head to the side carefully watching as Jon's eyes skim from one stronghold to the next. The contemplation on his face combined with the fact that he has scarcely looked at her since she entered the room has the skin at the back of her neck prickling. “Jon.. who will you be giving them to?”

Jon's gaze lingers for a moment on the map before he finally looks at her with tired eyes, silently imploring her not to fight him. “Sansa...”

Sansa's hand clutches at the needle at the end of her necklace as she straightens. “I want to know.”

The chair scrapes loudly against the stone floor as Jon stands, walking over to the hearth where he watches the flames lick at the logs, with his back to them. “I will not punish children for their fathers actions.

“Yes,” she replies watching him through narrowing eyes, “but what does that mean?”

Podrick fiddles nervously with the bottom of his leather doublet as the others in the room become uncomfortable with the tense silence that grows between the two as Jon remains quiet.

“ _Jon_ , what does that mean?”

“It means that I will not throw out Alys Karstark or Ned Umber from their homes,” Jon says, spinning around to meet Sansa's steely gaze with one of his own. “ _I_ will not.”

Sansa eyes grow cold as she leans back in her seat. “I see.”

“My lady, perhaps if you were to listen to-” Davos begins, casting a worried look at Jon but Sansa raises her hand in the air.

“No.” Her eyes burn just as brightly as the blazing fire by Jon's side as she turns her attention back to him. “So you will not punish those who betrayed us-”

“They didn't betray us, Sansa.”

She twists the needle around in her hold. “Their families did.”

Jon runs an agitated hand through his hair. “They had no part in their families actions!”

Sansa's chest heaves with anger as she stands, bracing her hands on the table. “No, but you have to make an example out of them. You cannot have treason go unpunished, what sort of message would that give?”

A muscle in Jon's jaw ticks as he looks at her through heated eyes.

“Sansa,” Brienne begins, drawing Sansa's attention to her. Her blue eyes shine with sympathy but she shakes her head in the barest of movement.

Sansa takes a small step back, righting herself as she looks around at the other faces, watching her with unease. “Could you...” she tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear, “could you give us a moment alone?”

Brienne is the first to stand, followed by a relieved looking Podrick, who quickly makes his way over to the door.

Davos gives Jon a questioning look but Jon nods his head at him. “Go on.”

“That is the first time I've ever seen them act like brother and sister," Tormund mumbles to Davos. The older man stiffens, throwing a concerned look over his shoulder at both Jon and Sansa before the door falls shut behind him, leaving them in silence.

Jon is the first one to break it. “Sansa, I do not want to argue with you,” he sighs, “but this is my decision.”

She turns her head stiffly to the the side, peering out the window while asking, “Does that mean you will not take my advice on it?”

“Of course not,” Jon says with his eyes softening as comes to stand in front of her, “but Sansa that does not always mean I will agree with you.”

She nods, sinking back into her seat. “No, of course not,” she says, wetting her lips with her tongue, making them glisten in the light of the candles, “but I'm only trying to help you.”

Jon's eyes flicker over her face before searching her eyes out. “I know that,” he says, reaching out for her hand as he takes the empty seat next to her. “I do.” His thumb ghosts over her knuckles. “What would you have me do?”

The anger leaves her body on a long exhale at the consideration he displays so openly. “Give the castles to loyal families, families that fought with you not against you.”

“Then what?” Jon glances down at the map and his eyes travel from Last Hearth to Karhold and then to Winterfell. “What would you have me do with Alys and Ned?”

She looks down at the map, trailing her eyes down from Winterfell past the Neck all the way down to Ironman's bay where her eyes fall upon the Iron Islands. “Take them as wards.”

Jon turns his head to the side, following her gaze. “Like Theon?”

“Yes,” Sansa lifts her gaze to look at him, “show the families that were loyal to us your gratitude by giving them the castles, and show the North that you are a just king by taking the children of those who stood against you into your household, treating them with respect. They will be loyal to you because of that.”

“Theon was not loyal.” A flicker of regret passes over his face as he says it.

Sansa averts her eyes, looking into the fire as she hears Theon's heartfelt whisper as if he was standing next to her now with those blue eyes of his filled with such self-loathing and remorse. _“I would have taken you all the way to the Wall... I would have died to get you there.”_

“Sansa.”

She forces herself to move her head, allowing the image of Theon to fade away with the embers that drift up the chimney.

Jon's dark waves fall freely around his sympathetic face as he squeezes her hand with his. “Ned and Alys will remain more loyal to us if we do not strip them of their homes.”

She twists her hand around in his hold, tightening it around his as she looks at him. “It's your decision.” 

* * *

Sansa sits on Jon's left watching the Great Hall fill with people, brushing snow off of their cloaks as they take the empty seats by the tables around them. She sees Alys Karstak throw Jon a glance before she takes the seat next to Beren Hornwood, Sansa turns her head to look at Jon, catching the small smile he sends in the girl's direction.

Jon begins the meeting with stating what needs to be done to prepare the North for the Long Night and although some lords grumble to each other about putting swords into the hands of little girls and women, his speech is well received and for once he almost seems at ease with his role causing Sansa to silently berate herself for what she is about to do.

“If they breach the Wall,” Jon continues, “the first castles in their path are Last Hearth and Karhold.”

The bench underneath Yohn Royce creaks as he stands. “The Umbers and the Karstarks betrayed the North.” Alys dark hair falls around her face as she turns it away from the old lord. “The castles should be torn down with not a stone not left standing.”

Sansa's voice rings out through the hall before Jon has a chance to speak. “The castles committed no crimes, and we need every fortress we have for the war to come.” She turns her head directing her next words at Jon. “We should give the Last Hearth and Karhold to new families, _loyal_ families who supported us against Ramsay.”

Jon's lips part as he looks down at her and she sees a swirl of emotions pass through his eyes before he has time to compose himself. Each one of them tug painfully at her heartstrings but it is the disbelief and the look of betrayal that follows that has her hands growing numb and her heart to beat furiously against her ribcage.

He removes his gaze from hers, listening to the support she receives from some of the lords before speaking. “The Umber and the Karstarks have fought beside the Starks for centuries.” His eyes flicker to Alys. “They have kept faith generation after generation-”

Sansa shifts her eyes from Jon to Alys and back to Jon as if she cannot believe what she is hearing. “And then they broke faith.” She glances at Davos who is listening to them grim faced while Littlefinger lurks in the shadows of the wall behind him.

A barely concealed frustration creeps into Jon's voice as he averts his gaze from Sansa's, looking around the room. “I'm not going to strip these families of their ancestral homes because of the crimes of a few reckless sons! I-”

“So there is no punishment for treason and no reward for loyalty?” Sansa asks, staring up at him with dismay.

Jon's eyebrows come together in a straight line above his stormy eyes as he looks down at her, and Sansa thinks it is the first time she has seen him so angry with her since that terrible night before the battle. “The punishment for treason is death,” he answers with his voice echoing on the last word. “Smalljon Umber died on the field of battle. Cregan Karstark died on the field of battle, Arnolf Karstark is dead.”

“They _died_ fighting for Ramsay,” she reminds him, raising her voice so that it carries to the end of the hall. “Give the castles to the families of the men that died fighting for _you_.”

Her expression is resolute as she listens to some of the men gathered there bump their fists against the tables in agreement, inwardly however she is fighting against the fear that had tightened around her chest at Jon's disappointment in her but she reminds herself that it is all worth it once she sees the smug satisfaction on Littlefinger's face.

She keeps the facade as she follows Jon up onto one of the walls while he berates her, refusing to look at her. She bites down on her lower lip, tearing at the skin until she can taste blood as she prepares herself for the next thing she is about to say.

“Joffrey never let anyone question his authority, do you think he was a good king?”

Jon stops walking, staring at her as if she has wounded him. “Do you think I am Joffrey?”

The pain and uncertainty in his voice tears at her just as Ramsay's hounds had torn at the flesh of their victims. She glances around them, assuring herself that they are not being overheard before her expression softens. “You are as far from Joffrey as anyone I've ever met.”

* * *

That night Sansa tentatively lifts one hand to knock on Jon's door for the first time in months. She waits for several tense moments for him to reply, glancing down at the key in her palm.

“Jon?” she calls, knocking again when she receives no answer.

The skin around her knuckles turn white as she wraps her fingers tightly around the key, feeling its sharp edges cut into her hand.

Her lower lip trembles despite her efforts and she nods her head to herself, lifting a hand to brush away a few strands of hair from her face before turning around.

The door opens behind her with a soft click.

She spins around, clutching the key as she finds Jon looking at her from behind a few damp curls of hair.

“I'm sorry,” he tells her gruffly, moving aside so that she can step into the room, “I didn't hear you.”

Sansa's eyes fall on the steaming bath that has been placed in the middle of the room before she turns her gaze on him, noticing the hastily thrown on shirt and trousers that cling to his damp skin. “Am I disturbing you?”

He shoves the door shut before locking it. “No,” he says leaning his back against it as he turns to study her.

She fiddles nervously with the key, inspecting the darkened corners of its worn edges. “I'm sorry.”

He sighs. “Was it worth it?”

Her eyes snap up to his, finding him looking at her with a deep awareness. “You understand why I did it, don't you?”

Jon's lips curl into a smile but there is no amusement in his voice. “I'm not that stupid, Sansa.” Drops of water drip onto his shoulder from his hair as he tilts his head to the side, scrutinizing her. “But couldn't you have chosen another way to do it than questioning me in front of the other lords?”

She shakes her head at him, closing the distance between them. “No, don't you see?” she implores softly, looking into his eyes. “He needs to think we are disagreeing and that it is causing a rift between us.” Her eyes are pleading as she takes his hands in hers. “Jon, it's the only way I can get him to trust me.”

Jon shakes his head at her. “Why?” he whispers agitated. “Why do you need him to trust you? Why can't we just be rid off him?”

Her grip on his hands tightens. “Because we need to be smart. We need the Vale and Sweetrobin controls the Vale but Littlefinger controls him.”

Jon shakes his head at her. “Isn't Lord Royce support enough?” there is a desperation in his voice, a desperation for all this to be over and Sansa wishes so desperately that she could say yes.

“No,” she whisper, face softening. “Lord Royce told me that he questioned Littlefinger once... and Robin suggested they throw him out of the Moon Door.”

Jon lets go of her hand, scrubbing both of his palms against his face. “We don't have time for this.” His face is red from where his hands had been as he looks up, peering out the window at the darkness. “The army of the dead is approaching and we are all here playing some _stupid_ game for power that won't matter in the end.”

Sansa grips his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. “Then don't worry about it,” she urges, looking into his eyes. “Let me deal with it.”

He scoffs at her words but his eyes are soft as he cups her cheeks with his scarred hand. “How can I not worry when you are involved in it?”

She leans into his touch. “You will have to trust me. I know what I am doing,” the corner of her mouth moves against his hand as she speaks. “I promise.”

* * *

 “ _Promise me,” the woman pleads in a voice faint as a whisper. “Promise me, Ned.”_

_The blue rose she holds withers, black petals spill onto bloodstained sheets._

 “Shh, it's just a dream,” warm hands stroke damp hair away from a clammy forehead. “You're dreaming. It's alright _I promise_.”

* * *

A raven arrives later that day, struggling on the winds as it makes its descent towards the old stronghold, flapping its wings and cawing at the new maester as he takes hold of it, untying the scroll strapped to its leg.

“Your Grace!” The maester calls, approaching Jon in the training yard. “A raven has arrived for you from the Citadel.”

Jon lowers his sword, dragging a hand over his sweaty forehead before taking the scroll.

Sansa watches the exchange from a safe distance where she is surrounded by a group of young children, all of whom are watching the others train. She sees Jon unroll the scroll, taking care to hide it from prying eyes before reading the words written on it. He reads it over twice before raising his head, looking straight at her.

A hand tugs at Sansa's cloak as she takes a step towards Jon. “Where are you going?” Aslak asks, looking up at her, all rosy cheeked and wide-eyed.

Sansa smiles down at the boy, running her hand through his hair before bending down so that she is on his level. “I need to have a word with the King.”

The child peers past her at Jon, who has turned his attention towards Tormund, beckoning the man to him. “Can I come?”

Sansa's hair falls around her shoulders as she shakes her head at him, smiling kindly. “No, not this time. Why don't you go join Willa and Arrec?” She says, nodding at the other two.

Aslak turns around, watching as Arrec instructs Willa on how to parry with the wooden sword she holds firmly in her grip. “I'm gonna try that!” he exclaims, pointing excitedly at Willa before scurrying off in her direction.

Sansa brushes the snow off of her dress as she stands, quickly making her way over to Jon and Tormund, who are conversing silently with one another. “What's the matter?” she asks once she reaches them.

Jon hands her the scroll, watching her face closely as she reads the hastily written words. “If...” she begins, looking from one man to the other, “if this is true it changes everything.”

“Aye,” Jon agrees, “I'm having everyone gathered in the Great Hall this evening.”

* * *

“A raven arrived from the Citadel earlier today,” Jon says, standing as he once again looks out at all the people gathered before him. “It brought with it news that could change the outcome of the war to come.”

A hush falls over the hall at his words, and they all turn their eyes on him – even Litttlefinger – watching him expectantly.

Jon's eyes linger on the Free Folk gathered there before moving on to the northern lords. “It confirmed that there is dragonglass at Dragonstone.” He gives pause, watching as some men shift in their seats, frowning at each other. “Now I know that I said we would not turn our attentions south not even for dragonglass, but it has been confirmed that there is a much larger amount there than we had ever expected.”

For one moment there is utter silence before a chorus of voices breaks through the hall, all shouting to be heard.

“We can't go south!”

“The Neck is closed!”

“You said we had to turn our forces north!”

Jon does not falter as he raises his hand, demanding everyone's attention. “We are keeping our forces north, but we need to arm those forces and we will arm them with dragonglass.”

Cley Cerwyn shoots up from his chair, staring at Jon through narrowed eyes. “You said we didn't have enough men to spare to retrieve it before, have you wondrously acquired more men without our knowledge?”

Jon eyes are hard as steel as he looks at the young man. “No, I have not, Lord Cerwyn.” He takes a step back from the table, and Ghost who had lain spread out underneath it by Jon and Sansa's feet, shifts his red stare onto the lord. “But I have decided that this is a expedition deemed necessary if we are all to survive.”

“Forgive me Your Grace,” Littlefinger says, stepping forth from the shadows he had been lurking in, bowing to Jon in a way Sansa finds more mocking than anything else. “But does not Daenerys Targaryen sail for Dragonstone?”

Sansa's hands clench into fists around the armrest as she watches Littlefinger relish in the chaos that erupts around him. There are cries of outrage at the news of the Dragon Queen, to many of the men gathered there the pain the Targaryens inflected upon the North and the Vale has not been forgotten and its memory carries with it years of resentment.

“Aye,” Jon says coldly turning to look at Littlefinger, “and I have sent a raven to her to discuss these matters.”

Lord Royce flies out of his seat at Jon's words, staring at the young King with heated eyes. “A Targaryen cannot be trusted!”

“We have no other choice, my lord, but to bargain with her,” Jon insists. “We need the dragonglass.”

“What about using fire?” Lyanna Mormont asks before standing. “You said before that we could fight wights with fire,” she reminds him, tilting her head to the side.

Jon steps around the table, standing in front of it with Ghost by his side. “Fire won't be enough my lady. There are too many of the dead and if we try to kill them with fire only we will be overcome.”

The chair beneath Sansa scrapes loudly against the stone floor as she stands, drawing everyone's attention to her. “Do not think for a moment that I do not share the concern of all you gathered here,” she begins, allowing her eyes to travel over the many faces looking up at her. “I do not like the idea of having an alliance with this dragon queen any more than you do, and I do not doubt that she will want something in return,” she leans forward bracing her hands on the table, “but my lords and my ladies we have not made a deal with her yet, all we have done is request a meeting.” She glances at Littlefinger who is watching her closely before turning towards Lyanna. “And I do not intend let this dragon queen lay claim to the north, we will not stand in her way to take the South if she in turn leaves the North be.”

“And if she does not?” Lyanna asks. “If she has three dragons what is to stop her from raining fire down upon us?”

“The truth,” Jon says, drawing the young lady's attention away from Sansa and back onto him. “The truth will make her understand what the real threat is.”

Lyanna presses her lips into a thin line before finally asking, “And what if she does not believe in what you have to say?”

Jon's voice is steadfast as he looks at the people before him. “That is something we will have to deal with when it comes but as of now meeting with Daenerys Targaryen will not harm us.”

* * *

“That went well,” Jon mutters to himself later as he and Sansa make their way through the snow covered lichyard.

Sansa steps away from the headstone of a young girl she had been inspecting. “What had you expected?” she asks, watching Jon weave his way around several graves.

Jon shoulders drop as he sighs, turning around to look at her. “I don't know... some trust I guess.”

One of Sansa's fingers trails along a crack that runs through the top of a worn stone. “Trust has to be earned.”

Jon stiffens, eyes flickering to hers. “Have I not earned it?”

Sansa's cloak leaves a trail in the snow behind her as she walks up to him. “Winning one battle, no matter who it is against, is not enough.” She wants so desperately to reach out for him, but afraid of who might be watching she keeps her hands at her sides. “You have to show them you are worthy of the title they have given you,” the cobalt flecks in her eyes shine as she smiles at him, “that is how you earn their trust.”

Jon's expression softens at her words and he leans forward parting his lips, about to say something when a sound of a horn being blown breaks through the air, announcing the presence of oncoming riders.

* * *

A group of a dozen people ride through the East Gate, clouds of smoke escape from their horses muzzles as they snort in the cold winter air.

Sansa's watches the man at the front of the group slide off of his horse, taking in his short statue as he straightens his green cloak. Her gaze travels from the first man to the others as they too dismount, noticing their lack of height and slim bodies and by the time her attention returns to the first man Sansa already knows who he is without having seen the black lizard-lion pin that holds his cloak in place.

Jon seems to have come to the same conclusion as her for his voice leaves him in an astonished whisper, “Howland Reed.”

The first man steps forward, removing the hood of his cloak to reveal a weathered face with moss green eyes. “Your Grace,” he says in a raspy voice before casting his eyes onto the ground as he kneels before Jon.

For a moment all Jon seems able to do is stare down in amazement at the man he has heard his father talk so highly of, before his speech finally comes back to him. “Rise.”

The wheels of a simple wagon creak as it is pulled through the mud and snow by a black horse that neighs loudly at being forced to a halt. Sansa can hear Howland Reed exchange a few words with Jon but what is being said does not register with her as she watches two of the men step up to the wagon, dragging something along its surface before heaving it down onto the ground, where mud splatters onto it.

For a moment it is as if everything around Sansa seizes to exist but for the enamelled chest. Her vision blurs and the skin of her palm breaks as her nails tear into. She forgets how to breath.

From somewhere afar someone is calling her name, closing their hands around her arms, drawing her away from the chest.

A sword swings through the air.

Blood drips down it.

“Sansa.”

A warmth closes around her hand.

“Sansa.”

Something hard and warm pushes up against her side.

“It's all right.”

Teeth nip at the hand that hangs limply by her side.

She blinks finding herself caught in grey eyes.

“Jon?”

The warmth around her hand tightens, pulling her back, anchoring her to the now. “Yes.”

Sansa lashes flutter against her pale cheeks as she looks down at the white wolf, pressing himself against her side. She reaches out with a trembling hand, sinking her fingers into the soft fur on his neck. “I never thought...” she whispers only for them to hear. “I never thought he would come home.”

Jon tightens his grip on her hand. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”

He takes her by the arm, leading her away from the dreary courtyard, throwing a look behind him at Howland Reed to follow. The slight man nods before turning around to his men, jerking his head at the chest.

Sansa keeps her hand twined in Ghost's fur as she allows Jon to lead her towards the empty Great Hall, focusing on the way the wolf's thick fur feels against her skin, trying to keep herself there, to not slip back into the past.

Jon throws her a concerned look before entering the hall, guiding her into the seat left to him, kneeling down beside her. “Sansa,” his voice is gentle, almost coaxing as if he is afraid she is not truly there.

She removes her eyes from the entrance Howland Reed and his company has just stepped in through to look down at him. “I'll be fine.”

He grasps both of her hands in his. “You don't have to be.”

Her teeth grind together as she jerks her head. “Yes, yes I do.”

Jon hesitates for a moment, looking as if he wants to say something else but the the footsteps of their guests echo behind him, and so he stands, drawing a chair out next to her and when he sits down in it he is almost close enough to her for their shoulders to touch.

Howland's unreadable green eyes linger for a moment on Sansa, sweeping over her face before settling on Jon. “I sent my children here to swear fealty to your brother,” he shifts his attention to Sansa, “King Robb, and now I have come here, heeding your call to swear fealty to the new King in the North.”

The end of the worn green cloak he wears over his jerkin sweeps against the floor as he turns towards Jon, lowering himself onto his knees. “To Winterfell I pledge the faith of Greywater,” his raspy voice carries throughout the hall. “Heart and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my King. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you,” the words slips past his lips in a soft murmur. “I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron.” He lifts his eyes to look at Jon. “I swear it by ice and fire.”

“And I vow,” Jon says in a voice that rings clearly though the hall, “that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead by my table, and that I shall ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour.” Jon's eyes linger on the man for a second. “I swear it by the old gods. Rise Howland Reed of Greywater Watch.”

Howland does as he is bid, casting a mindful look at Sansa. “I have brought with me a gift as a token of good fate.”

Jon sucks in a sharp breath as Howland beckons his men to come forward with the chest, glancing at Sansa whose her expression remains the same.

“I have kept it safe ever since it came into my care,” Howland tells them, resting a gnarled hand upon it as it is placed by his feet, “waiting for the day I could return him to his rightful place.”

Jon's voice is thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

Sansa remains silent as Jon has food and drink brought in for their guests, watching as Davos and Tormund carry the chest out of the hall with care before returning to take their seats on Jon's right.

“It is to my understanding that you have news of my children?” Howland says as he tears loose a piece of bread from the loaf the servants had laid out before him, popping it into his mouth.

“Aye,” Jon says, lifting a cup of ale to his lips, “although I fear the news aren't recent.”

The crannogman smiles crookedly. “I'll take what I can get.”

Jon leans back in his seat, watching the older man carefully. “Last time anyone heard from them was at Nightfort.... they were heading north beyond the wall, with our brother.”

Howland's eyes gleam in the candlelight as he nods his head. “Yes, yes...”

“You knew they would go there?” Sansa asks, speaking for the first time since the vows had been exchanged.

Howland reaches for a piece of bone on his plate. It snaps between his hands with a loud crunch as he looks at Sansa. “I had my suspicions,” he tells her before lifting the bone to his lips, sucking out the marrow.

“Forgive me my lord,” Davos says from Jon's other side, setting down his cup of ale, “but why would you allow your children to leave if you knew that's where they would be going?”

Howland turns his eyes on the Onion Knight. “You are a southerner aren't you?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

Howland's eyes gleam as he rest his elbow on the table, dragging a hand through his brown beard. “I don't suspect you will understand our customs, my lord, but if my boy says a three-eyed raven has told him to go north, then who am I to question it?”

The lines on Davos forehead wrinkle as he frowns at the other lord, and Sansa shift her eyes to Jon questioningly but he is not looking at her instead his face has grown pale as he stares at the crannogman with growing apperception. “A three-eyed raven?”

“Aye,” Howland replies, looking deep into Jon's eyes before allowing them to wander over all those gathered there before he leans back in his chair. “I think it's time for the King and I to have a private conversation.”

The other crannogmen stand at his words, but Davos shakes his head. “Your Grace-” he begins but Jon does not give him the opportunity to finish, turning around to look at his adviser.

“I think it is best if we were to speak undisturbed.”

It is with reluctance that Davos stands, following behind the other men as they depart. Howland smiles at the man before taking a swig of his ale, eyes shifting to Sansa who has remained seated. “I'm afraid this conversation to be had only between two sets of eyes.”

Sansa opens her mouth about to object but then Jon's hand closes around hers. “Whatever you have to say to me can be said in front of her.”

Howland cooks his head to the side, lowering his eyes to their joined hands. “Very well.” His face is sad as he shifts forward in the chair, studying Jon's features. “By the gods you look like him, do you realise that?”

Jon lips are pressed tightly together, and Sansa turns her head to look at him, seeing what Howland Reed sees, seeing what the whole North sees when they look at him, a Stark, but she sees something else on his face, an emotion he is desperately trying to hide... dread.

Howland chuckles to himself darkly. “Ned was lucky that you have so much of _her_ in you, by the gods if you hadn't... I don't think we would be sitting here today.”

Sansa tears her gaze from Jon's ashen face to look at the older man. “Her?”

“Aye,” Howland replies, nodding as he watches Jon carefully. “You know of whom I speak, don't you?”

A feeling of unease spreads through Sansa's body as Jon clutches at her hand while Howland smiles sadly at the young king. “You've had dreams, haven't you?”

Jon adam's apple bobs as he speaks in a hoarse voice that is barely louder than a whisper. “Aye.”

Sansa heart lurches painfully against her chest as she twists around in her seat to look at Jon, seeing his stricken expression. “What dreams?”

She knows his dreams, it is something he has shared with her in a hushed voice during their sleepless nights when the shadows had danced menacingly on the walls around them.

“Ned loved Lyanna more than anything,” Howland continues, ignoring Sansa's question. “He would have done anything for her...” he turns his green gaze on Jon, “and he did. When Lyanna lied dying she made him promise... promise to protect you.”

Jons hand is in moist against Sansa's as she lets out a gasp of surprise. “ _What?_ ” She looks from one man to the other, and when her eyes fall upon Jon whose face is whiter than the snow falling outside, she tightens her hold on the hand that has gone slack in hers. “You mean that Father isn't... he's not-”

“He is not Jon's father,” Howland finishes for her, gaze softening. “I know that this is difficult to hear, but Ned he did it for your protection. Robert couldn't find out... if he had found out you would be-”

“Dead,” Jon finish for him in a voice devoid of any emotion. “I would be dead.”

Sansa's free hand comes up to cover her mouth in surprise as realisation finally dawn upon her. “Rhaegar...” she whispers, blue eyes widening as she looks into Jon's grey ones. “Rhaegar Targaryen, he is your real father.”

Jon's face twist with emotion into an ugly grimace as he withdraws his hand from hers, burying his face in his hands.

“Jon,” Howland says kindly, watching as Jon's shoulders heave with each shaky breath he takes. “Lyanna went with him willingly, she _wanted_ to be with him.”

Dark strands of hair fall into Jon's bloodshot eyes as he lifts his face from his hands to look at the crannogman. “Why?” he pleads, his voice cracking. “Why didn't he tell me?”

“He never had the chance to.”

It is the defeated way Jon slumps forward, hanging his head, that drives Sansa to ask the question even though everything she had always wonder about as a child seems to have fallen into place, her father's infidelity, his reluctance to speak about Lyanna... “How do we know what you are saying is true?” she asks, looking into Howland's eyes. “It might all be a lie.”

Howland shakes his head at her and the pity in his eyes is all the answer Sansa truly needs. “Why are you telling us this now?”

“Because,” Howland begins, moving his attention from her to Jon, who is staring brokenly down at his hands, “Eddard would have wanted you to know the truth.”

There is no emotion in Jon's voice as he looks up at him with dark eyes. “Why didn't he tell me sooner? _Why?_ ”

“Because the truth was too dangerous with Robert alive.” Howland braces his hand on the table, leaning over it, closer to Jon. “It's all right to be angry with him, Jon, but that man loved you like you were his own and everything he did was to keep you safe.”

A muscle in Jon's jaw ticks as he moves his head to the side, working his teeth furiously against one another.

Howland's chest heaves as his breath leaves him in a soft sigh. “I'll give you two some time,” he says, pushing the chair back as he stands. He turns back around once he is at the foot of the hall. “Ned's bones,” he calls. “It should be you two that lay him to rest.”

Once the doors fall shut behind the cannogman Sansa turns her worried eyes on Jon, falling onto her knees in front of him. “Jon,” she whispers, taking his stiff unresponsive hands in hers as she tries to catch his eye but he keeps his head lowered to his chest, hiding his face beneath his dark curls. “Jon, you need to talk to me. Jon, _please_ ,” her voice quavers as she shakes his hands.

Jon hands are cold as he pulls them out of her grip and she leans forward, desperately trying to take hold of them but he reels back, pushing over the chair as he stands.

Tears spill down Sansa's pale cheeks as she watches him fold his arms around his midsection, trying to hold himself together, stepping into the shadows to escape from her, and in that moment he looks just as broken and lost as Theon had been.

“Jon, I don't care about any of this,” she says in one heartfelt breath, getting onto her feet. “I care about _you_.”

He shakes his head, running his trembling hands through his hair, tugging at the ends of it. “I don't even know who I am any more.”

Sansa closes the distance between them, taking his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “You are _you_ ,” she tells him passionately, trying to shake some sense into him. “You're still the Jon that was loved by his family, the Jon that was a brother of the Night's Watch, the Jon that united the North.” She laces her fingers at the back of his neck, pulling his face down to hers so that their foreheads are touching. “You are still the same Jon that saved me... saved me from myself,” she whispers sincerely, looking into his pained eyes. “Your story is still the same, it is what leads up to the beginning of it that has changed.”

He drops his head onto her shoulder, hiding his face in the crock of her neck as his body shakes while tears spill down his cheeks onto her skin.

“It's going to be all right,” Sansa promises, wrapping one arm around him while slipping her other hand into his hair. “I promise,” she whispers pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second disclaimer: The part in this chapter where Howland Reed swears allegiance is taken directly from A Clash of Kings (p.329, paperback edition), I take no credit for that whatsoever.  
> Sidenote: I have no clue what Jon's response should be to such an oath (Bran didn't know in the book) so I decided to go with something similar to what Sansa vowed to Brienne, I hope it wasn't horrendously bad.
> 
> This chapter was the hardest thing I've ever written. I've spent hours and hours in front of my computer rewriting the same paragraph over and over because my writer's block is so bad but I promised myself I wouldn't stop writing until this chapter was done. Right now I just feel like my writing style is so simple, and that I honestly have nothing on these other author's that write gorgeous fanfics about these two, using such beautiful words to convey emotions.  
> I really do not feel like I did the scene where Jon finds out about his true parentage justice, in fact I hate it and it didn't matter how many times I rewrote it. So I apologise now for such an underwhelming scene for something that should have been really emotional. 
> 
> I'm sorry that the first half is so uneventful but I had to try and line up the story somewhat with the show. I also had to put my own spin on the scene where Jon has all the lords gathered, because I've already had him send Ramsay's surviving forces to Castle Black and he also sent a thousand men to help man Shadow Tower and Eastwatch. I hope you guys does not feel like it was a waste of time reading about it again, but for me the part about Last Hearth and Karhold was important and I needed to include it in this. 
> 
> How do you feel about the Marriage between Ysilla Royce and Harry the Heir? 
> 
> How do you feel about Howland Reed?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	13. Warning to reader

**Warning to reader**

**So this is not a chapter but I really need to address something that has come to my attention. If someone reviews my story I more often than not check their profile which I did with this one reader and they too had written a Jon/Sansa story and so I decided to read it, which is when I discovered something that makes me uneasy.**

**I have dealt with plagiarism before over on ff.net and those who know me from over there know that it is not something I will ever tolerate, but I'm going to give this person the benefit of doubt and just hope they were inspired by my story and did not think about what they were doing.**

**It is not like this person has copied entire paragraphs from my story but there two parts that are eerily similar to a scene from _chapter 2_  where Jon and Sansa discuss Lady's death and then the following scene where Sansa falls asleep by Ghost and Jon moves her to his bed while Ghost moves so he is sleeping next to Sansa. Now I'm not bothered about the topic or anything, many topics are the same in fics but what bothers me is that the characters conversation is very, very similar to mine and they way they act and move is as well which I do not think is okay. So far it is just this one scene but this person story does not have that many chapters yet and I know from previous experiences that one scene can turn into many and that is why I am addressing the issue now before it has a time to escalate.**

** I know this person reads this story and so this is to you:**

**Like I said I'm giving you the benefit of doubt that you did not think of what you were doing but if I come across more things in your story that are the same as in mine I will give you one chance to remove them and if you do not then I will not keep your name anonymous.**

 

 

**I'm aware that some people think that fanfiction writers should not get so upset over other people copying or stealing pieces from their stories since we essentially do the same with everything we write on here, but there is a big difference between those two.**

**A fanfiction writer does not ever take credit for the characters, worlds etc that they use but they expand the universe of it by creating their own versions and storylines within it, therefore the fanfiction in question is not a work of plagiarism. However if a fanfiction author takes lines or whole paragraphs from the universe they're writing in or from other books, films, shows or other fanfictions without stating that it is quoted or inspired by it, it is plagiarism. **

 

**To those of you that were hoping this would be another chapter I'm truly sorry, I had never intended to write an AN without a chapter but with this issue I had to, but I promise that the next chapter will be up sometime this week.**


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay but I spent half of August travelling and then I've just been busy. However my travelling has really been an inspiration to write this, especially the upcoming chapter.  
> I went to London and then back to Edinburgh (my heart will forever belong to that amazing city), it was during the fringe and so I watched Game of Thrones the Musical Parody and I'm not exaggerating when I say that everyone was dying form laughter, if you ever get the chance to see them or their other performance act called Baby Wants Candy I highly recommend you do!
> 
> There will be a rant at the end of this chapter about the clusterfuck of a season this last one has been.

Sansa does not get any sleep that night. She spends the long hours of it watching over Jon as he twists and turns, groaning into his pillow, trying to escape all that torments him.

She dips a silk cloth into bowl of cool water, wringing it out before placing it on Jon's warm forehead, stroking away a few strands of damp hair. “It's all right.”

His lips twitch and the cloth slips off of him as he rolls onto his side, folding his arms around himself while a tear escapes past his closed lids which is followed by another one and then another one.

Sansa has to swallow around the lump in her throat that has has appeared at the sight of it. She takes the cloth from the bed, dropping it back in the bowl before laying down beside him, wrapping her arms around him and closing her hands over his, pressing her face against his shoulder, whispering words of comfort.

Ghost scratches at the door sometime during the night. He glides past Sansa like a silent shadow when she holds it open for him, moving to Jon's side of the bed where he rests his face by Jon's, watching him silently throughout the night with his red gaze while Sansa holds him.

She slips quietly out of bed when the castle begins to wake, searching out Davos and Brienne, both of whom stare baffled at her exhausted appearance as she informs them that Jon has taken ill and is not to be disturbed.

When she returns to Jon's chamber he is awake, sitting by the fire with Ghost curled up around him protectively.

“I'm sorry,” she tells him, locking the door behind her. “I meant to be here when you woke up.”

He shakes his head, looking down at the direwolf. “It's all right, I woke up when you left.”

She sets the tray of food she had brought with her down on the desk before turning around to look at him, leaning against it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He slips his hand into Ghost's fur, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. “What is there to talk about?”

Sansa pushes away from the desk and walks over to him where she kneels down. “Just because you are not Father's son does not mean that he loved you any less.”

Jon turns his face away from hers, staring into the fire. “I'm going to abdicate the throne to you.”

She sucks in a breath of surprise. “ _What?_ ”

There is no emotion on his face as he turns to look at her. “It is the right thing to do.”

Sansa eyes narrow into slits and her mouth twitches as she works teeth against each other. “How is that the right thing to do?” she asks, shooting to her feet. “ _How?_ ”

“I'm not a Stark.”

She makes a noise of frustration, eyes darting to the ceiling before looking down at him exasperated. “You are as much a Stark now as you were a day ago.”

He lifts his eyes to look at her. “I'm not.”

“Of course you are!” she snaps.

Jon pushes Ghost large paw off of his lap before standing, looking at her with tired eyes. “They only made me king because they thought I was Eddard Stark's son.”

She scoffs, shaking her head at him. “When will you stop degrading yourself?”

Anger flashes in Jon's eyes and Sansa relishes in it, relishes in the fact that he is showing some sort of emotion other than that wretched emptiness. “I'm not!”

“You are!” she insists, shaking her hands in the air as she steps up to him. “If you think even for one second that those men out there,” she gestures out the window, “are only following you because of whose son you are, well then,” she sneers before taking a step back to look him up and down as if she is seeing him for the first time, “you truly are as stupid as Mother said you were.”

Jon reels back as if she has slapped him. “What?”

She gives him an icy glare, lips curling in disgust. “You heard me.”

“You don't understand Sansa! I'm half Targaryen,” he slams his burnt hand hard against his chest. “Me!” It heaves with each heavy breath he takes and he lifts one hand to push away the strands of hair that has fallen into his furious eyes, impatiently. “It changes things! You saw how they all reacted to a possible alliance with the Dragon Queen, how do you think they will react once they find out about me?”

“I would hope,” Sansa hisses through clenched teeth, “that they would see the man I see and that they will trust you.”

Jon shoulders sag and the fight drains out of his body as he sinks onto the bed. “You said it yourself trust has to be earned...” he mutters, picking at a loose thread at the hem of his tunic.

She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose at her own stupidity. “I didn't mean it like that...”

Jon lips twist into a melancholy smile that Sansa wants to tear off of his face. “It doesn't make it any less true.”

She lets out a noise of pure frustration. The hem of her dress sweeps against the floor as she spins around walking over to the desk where she fills a goblet with the ale she had brought up for him, knocking it back before she turns to face Jon again who is watching her with a hint of surprise.

“What are you planning to do, hmm?” she asks. “Abdicate the throne to me and then what?” She quells the voice in the back of her mind that whispers that she is being too cruel. “Will you leave? Go somewhere warm while I am left alone to face the Others?”

Jon flies off of the bed at her words, stalking over to her where he grabs hold of her arms. “You know I would never do that.”

She shakes her head at him, red hair flying around her as she twist out of his hold. “This is not what is best for the North!”

“They won't have me as their King, Sansa!” he shouts back at her, dark eyes as blazing like the fire breathing sigil of his father's house. “They will revolt against me once they find out.”

“Not if you've earned their respect and trust,” she insists, watching him with smouldering eyes. “It won't matter if you have proven yourself by then, they will stand by you.”

Jon's shoulders are so tense that his clenched hands shake with each breath he takes. “Prove myself?” he echoes incredulously. “I won the battle against Ramsay, I'm trying to protect the North from the threat of the Others, what else can I do?”

Sansa makes a sound somewhere between a hiss and a sigh before closing her eyes, trying to level her breathing and attempting to rein in her anger, but truly sometimes she finds him incredibly daft. “You need to prove yourself a good king. You won the battle against Ramsay, you avenged the Red Wedding, that is why they choose you as their king, but besides that they do not really know who you are or what you will do.”

She pushes away from the desk when Jon turns his head, looking down at Ghost instead of her. “Jon, _I_ know you are a good king because I know you but the other northerners do not.” she says in a much gentler voice than before, reaching out to grasp his chin, forcing him to look at her, “You need to show them _who_ you are. Trying to protect them from the Others won't be enough right now, no one besides you, the Free Folk and the brothers of the Night's Watch have seen one. It isn't a real threat to them yet which is why they are all so scared of an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen because they don't know how you will respond to her demands.”

Jon steps back and Sansa's hand falls down to rest by her side. “I've made up my mind.”

She clenches her hands into fists, twisting them at her side. “Don't you see what your actions will be causing?” she asks with an underlying plea. “There will be revolts-”

“No,” he says shaking his head, “there won't be.” His eyes are resolute as he looks at her. “Not with you as Queen in the North.”

She scoffs and her delicate features morph into an grimace. “Yes there will be, you will leave the North in shambles. They won't just accept going form one ruler to another, not now when the peace we have created is so fragile.” She glances around the room as if searching for an allay, for someone to help her talk some sense into him, before settling her gaze on Ghost who is watching the both of them silently. “They won't believe the Others are a real threat if you abdicate...”

Jon's voice brings her attention back to him. “Even if you are right and they won't believe they will once their friends and family that are at the Wall writes to them.” He walks past her to the window, staring out at the dark sky and the white flecks of snow that falls from it, while his reflection stares back at him. “You will be a far better ruler than I ever could have been.”

“Do you think that is what I want?”

He glances at her reflection in the window; her hair falls in a disarray down her shoulders as she stares at him with wounded eyes and cheeks red with anger. “I don't know...” he confesses, watching his breath condensate on the glass.

Sansa nods, holding herself stiffly, brushing away a few strands of hair from her face. “I'm not that stupid little girl anymore, Jon.”

He closes his eyes at the hurt in her voice. “I know you're not.”

“I will have to marry if you make me queen.”

Jon's board shoulders stiffen at her words and she watches his hands tremble as he flexes his fingers as if he is trying to contain himself from striking someone. “What?” he asks, lips twitching before he spins back around to stare at her with burning eyes.

She schools her face into an indifferent mask, lifting her shoulders in a shrug, the chain around her neck rattles with the movement. “They won't let me rule without a husband.” She fiddles with the her needle pendant, ignoring Jon's heated eyes and begins to pace the room. “They will most likely have me marry a northerner... but Petyr would probably-”

Jon's burned hand closes around her upper arm, spinning her around and pulling her to him so that only mere inches separate them. “I won't _ever_ let them force you into a marriage,” he hisses, breath tickling against her skin.

“You won't have any say in it,” she reminds him coldly. “I will have to do what is best for the North.”

“How is you marrying what is best for the North?” His grip tightens around her arm and his eyes burn into her as he works his teeth furiously against each other. “ _How?_ ”

“It will keep it united,” she says trying to twist out of his hold but he does not let her. “I have to do something to mend the rift your actions will be causing.”

“Don't,” Jon growls, shaking her albeit carefully, “don't put this on me.”

“But it is on you!” She shouts, shoving him hard in the chest causing him to stumble taken aback. “You can't just quit once things get hard, then you should never have taken on the responsibility to begin with!”

“I didn't want to be king! I never asked for it but I did it for the good of the North.” He lets go of her arms, placing his hands on her shoulder's instead, lowering his face to hers, murmuring, “Once the truth comes out about my real parents me being king won't do the North any good.”

Sansa twist her hands around the fabric of the loose tunic he is wearing, tugging at it in frustration. “How is Petyr or some other northern lord that won't take the threat of the Others seriously becoming king any better than you ruling the North?” She searches his eyes, desperately looking for some emotion that will betray him, something she can latch onto and make him understand that he is what the North needs.

His grey eyes widen and his hands clasps around her neck. “You don't truly mean to marry him,” he whispers, resting his forehead against hers, searching her eyes for an answer.

She averts her eyes, biting down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “Him or someone else... I won't have much say in the matter.”

He uses his thumbs to lift her chin so that she has to look at him. “They cannot force you to marry if you're queen.”

She thinks he says it more for his own reassurance than hers and she smiles bitterly. “Of course they can. They won't allow me to become queen without a husband.” She lets go of his tunic, smoothing out the fabric before reaching up with one hand to cup his cheek. “Don't you see what your actions will be doing to the North... to me?”

“Sansa...” he sighs, closing his eyes.

She shifts her weight, brushing her nose against his as she tilts her head to study him, eyes following the scar that runs through one of his eyebrows and down onto his cheek. “Nothing has to change,” she whispers almost pleadingly. “We won't tell anyone the truth yet, it can all go on as it has.”

The black flecks in Jon's eyes glimmer as he opens them to look at her. “We can't lie about something like this.”

A weak and sad laugh escapes past her lips at his damned honour. “There is no reason for us to tell anyone about it until we can provide them with proof.”

A long strand of her hair falls down between them, tickling Jon's cheek as he frowns at her. “What proof?”

“About Lyanna and Rhaegar,” she says, breath ghosting against his face. “There has to be some document somewhere confirming your birth.”

He chuckles but it is a sound devoid of any mirth. “Bastards do not get any documentation.”

“No,” she agrees, looking into his eyes, gently tracing her thumb along his cheekbone, “they do not...”

He looks at her, eyebrows knitting together before the small lines around his eyes crinkle as genuine laugh escapes him. “Gods, Sansa, no.”

“Think about it Jon,” she insists, curling her other hand around his shirt. “Father said the Kingsguard wasn't at the Trident but at the Tower of Joy... why would Rhaegar order them to stay there if it wasn't of importance to him?”

“Lyanna,” Jon croaks, his throat suddenly gone dry.

The tip of Sansa's nose brushes against his as she shakes her head. “The Kingsguard are sworn to protect the King or the royal family...”

Jon's hands grow heavy around her neck, falling limply onto her shoulders. “No,” he whisper voice cracking as he looks at her with eyes that are begging her to take back what has just been said.

“It's all right,” she promises, pressing her cheek against his, “it's all right. It does not have to change anything, not yet. We won't tell anyone.”

He tries to pull away from her, tries to withdraw into himself but she won't let him catching at his wrist. “Jon,” she says, tugging at it until he is forced to turn back around to look at her, “I will help you.” She laces her fingers with his, bringing their hands up between them before stepping forward so that they are trapped between their bodies. “You won't have to do it all by yourself.”

He keeps his eyes fixed on a crack in the stone wall beyond her shoulder. “What if...” he whispers, blinking, “what if I don't want to know...”

“I think you are afraid of the truth because you fear of what you might loose because of it.” 

“I told you I don't want to be king.”

“No, not king. You are afraid that it means that you don't belong here... here in the North.” She squeezes his hand. “You're just as much a northerner today as you were yesterday. It doesn't matter that it's your mother and not father that is from the North, it's the same thing. You still grew up here, you have done more to protect the North than any other northerner has.”

He won't look at her but she sees him swallow and the way his hand twitches in her grip tells her that she is right.

“Would you please look at me?” It takes several more moments of her heart beating underneath his palm before he finally turns his eyes on her. “ _You_ belong here,” she insists, “just as much as I, Bran and Arya do, our mother was not from the North and your Father was not but that does not make us any less northern.”

It's the sadness in his eyes, the desperation and the confusion that has drives her to take him in her arms once more. “It's going to be all right,” she murmurs against his curls. “I will a find a way to make all this work." She draws her head back so that she can look at his face. “Write to Sam and have him look into it, and then we do not worry about it just yet.” 

* * *

Sansa wakes several hours later after some much needed rest to Jon having another nightmare. She can tell by the way he keeps tossing his head from side to side while moaning that it is in the early stages of the dream.

“Jon,” she says, stroking his hair out of his face while gently shaking his shoulder just as Ghost stands, pushing his muzzle against Jon's face, tongue darting out to lick at his cheek. “It's only a dream.”

She waits with her breath caught for him to either wake or for the nightmare to escalate and it is only when his eyes flutter open that she releases it on a deep sigh that has her shoulders relaxing.

“Water,” he croaks, blinking up at her and Sansa is up on her feet in an instant, pouring him a cup before sitting down on the bed next to him.

He takes the cup from her with trembling hands, tilting his head back as he devours it. “Thank you,” he mumbles with water trickling down the corner of his mouth onto his chin as leans his back against the headboard.

Ghost plops his large head down on Jon's lap, staring up at him with intense eyes. Sansa watches the two of the quietly for some time, marvelling at the way they seem lost in each others eyes almost as if they are one and the same.

“I think,” she begins, taking the cup from his hands and setting it down on the drawer next to the bed, “that going down to the Crypts might help you.”

He stiffens at her words and his fingers that he had been threading through Ghost's fur stills. “No.”

She waits for him to look at her but when he does not she smiles sadly. “Give it some thought.”

Jon's damp curls sway around his face as he shakes his head and Ghosts lifts his, locking his gaze with Jon's. He lowers his head to the direwolf's, feeling his fur tickle against his forehead as he looks into the red gaze, allowing it to anchor him to the present.

* * *

The clang of steel meeting steel echoes through the castle's courtyard as Sansa makes her way towards the glass gardens, bypassing men and women training.

Cold laughter cuts through the air from further up ahead. “Come now Gilwood you can do better than that,” Lyn Corbray calls all while parrying the other lords sword before gracefully dodging out of his opponents way with a bored expression on his handsome face.

The older man's bushy moustache twitches as he draws back his lips in a snarl, tightening his hold on the hilt of his sword before lunging at Corbray, much to the delight of the children watching them wide-eyed and with cheeks flushed from both the cold and excitement while they clutch their wooden swords.

Sansa spies Aslak over by Willa and Arrec and her pace slows until she comes to a halt, watching Willa hand the small boy her wooden sword. He waves it around wildly in the air, eyes shining with joy as he makes a stab at Willa, who clutches at her heart before stumbling back a couple of steps where she falls dramatically into a pile of snow, twitching once before rolling her head to the side, keeping her eyes open, staring unseeingly up at the white sky.

Aslak's peeling laughter follows her display before he drops the sword, jumping onto the girl who lets out a loud, “Oof!” while the boy shouts, “I won! I killed you!”

A chill slowly creeps its way up Sansa's spine and when she glances at Arrec she finds him looking at Willa with the same dismay mirrored in his eyes... children always close their eyes when they pretend to be dead.

“Lady Stark!”

Sansa's hair sways in the air as she spins around to find Maester Wolkan hurrying up the path to her, clutching tightly at something in his gloved hand. His maester chains rattle as he comes to a stop in front of her, holding out a scroll to her.

“This arrived for his grace,” he tells her, pressing the scroll into her hand. “I trust you will give it to him?”

Sansa's eyes flutter down to the seal for a moment and she quickly closes her hand around it before forcing the corners of her mouth up into a smile. “Of course, thank you Maester Wolkan.”

He nods before turning around, leaving in the same haste he had come.

She does not spare the scroll a second glance, instead she resumes her previous intentions and heads for the direction of the glass gardens.

The air inside the gardens is moist and she has to shed herself of her cloak within in minutes as she makes her way through them while sweat begins to gather along her cupid's bow. She throws a look out one of the condensed windows, halting for a moment to stare out at the wintry landscape while the smell of summer dances around her. Eventually she continues on, further into the gardens, listening to the hot springs gurgle softly while steam rises from them, coiling in the air as she makes her way into the most secluded part of the gardens where her senses are overwhelmed by the sweet sugary smell of the winter roses.

She stops for a moment and her blue eyes sweep over the frost coloured roses, she thinks they must be the most beautiful flowers she has ever laid her eyes upon. She bends down and her hair falls forward, framing her face as she closes her eyes and lean in close to one rose, taking a deep breath. Her senses swim with its sweet scent and she looses herself for a moment to its calming smell and the gurgling of water coming from somewhere nearby.

She has only ever seen the roses bloom twice before and each time her father had brought her with him to the gardens – while the rest of the children had played outside – watching as a delighted smile spread across her delicate features as she had run her fingertips with such care along the soft petals before bending down to smell the rose. The lines around Ned's eyes had crinkled and he had smiled at the sight before reaching out with one hand, plucking a rose and offering it to her.

Sansa's hand hovers over the largest rose, her fingertips gently stroke one of its green leafs. She trails one finger down its stem feeling its thorns prickle at the tip of it before she takes hold of if with both of her hands, snapping it off.

* * *

 The door to the gardens falls shut behind Sansa with a soft thud and she is just about to round the corner of the building so that she can take the path through the godswood back to the Great Keep when the sound of voices reach her.

“-waiting, we should act now.”

“ _Now?_ How do you propose we do that? No, we must wait,” another voice answers in a steady murmur that Sansa recognises to be Lord Royce.

“Corbray might be...” a third voice begins but his next words are drowned out by feet shuffling around.

Sansa holds her breath, leaning forward, waiting for the conversation to pick up again but all she is met with is silence. She stays where she is for a couple of minutes to be certain that they have all left but once she steps around the corner she gives a start as she finds herself caught in Lyn Corbray's intense stare.

“Ser Corbray,” she says politely while discreetly eyeing the door in the wall that separates them from the godswood but it is closed and except for the footprints in the snow there is no trace of Lord Royce and their third companion.

“Lady Stark,” Corbray says in a smooth voice but his eyes are cold as he flicks them over her. He raises one dark eyebrow once he notices the blue rose in her hands. “Winter's rose for winter's beauty.”

Sansa's hair falls over her shoulder down her back like a cascading waterfall as she tilts her head to the side, forcing the corners of her mouth up into smile. “You are too kind Ser.”

He inclines his head, dark eyes gleaming. “Not at all, my lady,” he says before spinning around on his heel, the snow crunch underneath it, heading for the door to the godswood.

* * *

The lock clicks as Sansa twists the key around before pushing the door to Jon's chamber open with her shoulder. Ghost gets up from the spot beside the bed where he had been resting – keeping an watchful eye on Jon – his paws patter softly against the floor. He nips carefully at Sansa's hand before slipping out of the room.

Jon is sleeping on his side, facing away from her and all that she can see from her position is a disarray of dark curls spread out on the pillow. She waits by the door for a moment, afraid that if she was to make too much noise she might trigger his nightmares but when he remains motionless and the only sound can be heard is the soft even exhales of his breathing she decides it is safe to move.

She places her weight on the front soles of her feet as she walks around the bed, bending down by the side of it to study Jon's sleeping face. The dark circles underneath his eyes stand out like ugly bruises against his pale skin but despite this Sansa thinks it is the most relaxed she has seen him in months, but the knowledge tugs at her heart, twisting it painfully in its grip because she knows that if it were not for the state of exhaustion he is in he would be tossing and turning on the bed right now.

She sits back against the bed, deciding to let him sleep for an hour or two. In the end she falls asleep too with her head resting against the edge of the bed, hair spilling down one of her shoulders in a slightly tangled mess while she still clutches at the winter rose in her hand, waking whenever it begins to slip out of her hold only to readjust it before falling back into oblivion.

She wakes to Jon accidentally bumping his knee into her head as he curls up into himself, she turns around, watching his eyebrows draw together while a muscle in his jaw jumps. She lifts one hand, about to shake his shoulder but then a frown creeps onto her face and her hand hovers in the air between them. She glances down at the rose in her other hand twisting it around thoughtfully, catching a whiff of its sweet scent.

She carefully lays the rose down next to Jon's face, its blue petals quiver with each of his exhales and Sansa cocks her head to the side watching with fascination as Jon seem to relax, face smoothing out and jaw softening.

His nostrils twitch at the sweet scent and Sansa bites down her lower lip, dragging her teeth along it before closing her hand around the rose's stem.

It twirls around in her loose grip as she slowly lifts it to his face, carefully stroking it down his cheek, tickling the skin.

Sansa's lips involuntarily quirk up at corners when Jon shifts forward, nose wrinkling. She drags the rose up along his cheek bone and then over his closed lids, sweeping it over them carefully before trailing it down his other cheek until she reaches his lips, stroking them with it.

Jon makes an unintelligible noise, eyes squeezing together before he cracks them open to blink at her bleary-eyed.

She smiles, holding the rose up for him to see. “For you,” she tells him before laying it down by his face.

He blinks down at it, eyes widening while his face grows a shade paler, and she watches with a growing frown as he pulls his hand forth from underneath his pillow, stroking the petals with trembling fingers.

She leans forward to rest her chin on the hand she had placed on the bed. “What's wrong?” she murmurs, staring into his eyes.

Jon sits up in one quick motion causing the furs that he had been wrapped up in to fall down around him while Sansa draws her head back. “Where...” he begins in a voice hoarse from sleep, “where did you find this?”

“In the gardens,” she replies, eyebrows knitting together.

“The gardens,” Jon repeats, hands trembling.

“Yes,” Sansa answers, watching one blue petal fall down onto the bed. “They are blooming now.”

Jon does not say anything, his eyes are fixated on the petal that rests on the white sheet.

“Jon,” she begins, reaching for his free hand, “what is wrong?”

He pulls his hand out of hers and reaches for the petal with trembling fingers. He attempts to capture it between his thumb and forefinger but they shake too much for him to be able to close them around it and it is only on his third try after he he has closed his eyes and taken a deep breath that he manages to take hold of the petal.

“Jon, I don't understand...” Sansa says, pushing herself up onto her knees, about to reach for him again but she stops herself when he opens his eyes to look at her.

He swallows visibly, lips moving silently while his eyebrows furrow and then he glances down at the rose before slowly moving his eyes to the petal. “I... I-I...” He drops the rose and the petal onto the bed, lifting his hands to tug at his hair. “Gods...” he mumbles and the words that follows are too incoherent for Sansa to understand. He tugs roughly at a fist of hair before letting it go, turning his lost eyes on her. “I... I think,” he shudders and grows quiet as one of the candles flicker, casting a dancing shadow on the wall.

“Jon...”

He reaches for the rose almost frantically, nails scratching at the sheet. He twists it around in his grip and Sansa catches its scent just when Jon leans forward looking at her with eyes just as big and vulnerable as child who has lost his mother. “Will you come with me... to the crypts?”

She smiles, expression softening. She reaches out for Jon's hand, closing hers around it, squeezing it. “Yes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally intended to include the crypts in this but I'm not done with that part and I need to change some things and since I don't want to fall into another massive hiatus because of my writer's block I decided to post this chapter even though it's shorter than usual, I hope you don't mind!
> 
> I decided to take liberties when it came to the Winter roses. 
> 
> Rant about this disappointment of a season:
> 
> I'm so disappointed with the writing of season seven, especially in the last two episodes but honestly episode 6 was just horrendous when it comes to the writing. I can understand that Jon and Sansa may not happen and I'm not one of those people who will hate on the rest of the show because of it but when characters begin to act so out of character and take ten steps back in their development, you as a writer are doing something wrong.
> 
> I feel like both Arya and Bran's characters have really not been treated well, instead of dwelling into the issues Bran might be dealing with after becoming the Three-eyed Raven they made him into a monotone creep. Arya's actions doesn't really make sense when it comes to how she treated Sansa, I knew where the show was going with their "dispute" but it was so obvious and therefore lacking suspense which was really disappointing to me.
> 
> This whole season has been so incredibly rushed and it's ruining the story because we never get an explanation or understanding of why the characters act the way they do and why they made certain decisions since the show runners completely skip showing us the conflict and emotions leading up to the characters making that desicion. 
> 
> Jon and Daenerys are ridiculously rushed and the fact that they needed to have Tyrion point out how Jon stares longingly at her just shows how forced it is. I personally believe (but with D&D that's asking for much) that Jon is playing her, although I won't go into that more.
> 
> Littlefinger's death was another huge disappointment, they really undermineded his character. 
> 
> But here are the three things I absolutely HATED:
> 
> #1. Rhaegar having his marriage to Elia Martell anulled, it made no sense whatsoever. It would have been so much better if the writers had decided to have Rhaegar do like his ancestors and take Lyanna as his second wife.
> 
> #2. Jon's real name is Aegon Targaryen... Aegon? Really? Really?! Here we have the show writers changing Asha's name to Yara because it was too close to Osha and people would become confused but no there is no problem for Jon to have the same name as his half-brother. It is beyond stupid and I refuse to acknowledge it as Jon's real name, unless George R.R Martin comes out and says it is which I highly doubt he will do.
> 
> #3. Haven't we always been told throughout the books and I'm pretty sure they put a lot of weight on this in the show as well that Jon looks like Ned, more so than his biological children. It is an important part of the story and part of the reason why Jon is alive and then all of the sudden in episode six I think it is (correct me if I'm wrong) Beric says and I quote:  
> "You don't look like him. Your father."  
> Excuse me what??? Where in the bloody hell did that come from? Jon looks like Ned and that line was just a lazy way of alluding to Jon's true parentage, and it makes me so angry! 
> 
> Worst season ever of Game of Thrones!
> 
> Sorry about this rant but I really had to get it out of my system.
> 
> I hope you guys liked the chapter, thanks for reading!
> 
> I just want to clarify that the characters wearing furs, leather and eating meat has nothing to do with my personal beliefs, I'm against that and I do encourage everyone to educate yourself on the subject of going vegetarian or vegan for the planet, animals and our own health before you sneer at the subject.  
> The reason I have these characters eating meat and wearing furs is because GoT is set in a medieval universe, and I wanted to stay true to what life was back then, it has nothing to do with my own personal beliefs.

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to clarify that the characters wearing furs, leather and eating meat has nothing to do with my personal beliefs, I'm against that and I do encourage everyone to educate yourself on the subject of going vegetarian or vegan for the planet, animals and our own health before you sneer at the subject.  
> The reason I have these characters eating meat and wearing furs is because GoT is set in a medieval universe, and I wanted to stay true to what life was back then, it has nothing to do with my own personal beliefs.


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